


Any Misery You Choose

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, timelines what timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan just wants a home. Ford just wants a future.</p><p>They're both going to get more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The X-Men are all over my dash recently, so naturally my response was to create yet another Gravity Falls AU. Crossover? Both. All established timelines for either canon have been summarily ignored.
> 
> Thanks to [seiya234](seiya234.tumblr.com) for help deciding on everybody’s powers, encouragement, and for helping me make a little more sense re: graduate and post-graduate studies!

So, the most important moment of Ford's life has come and gone on without him and  ~~it's all Stanley's fault~~  and now he has to come up with something else because when your one basket is as big and as sturdy and as brilliant as Ford's is, you don't bother putting any of your eggs anywhere else. So, any other school would be glad to have him, but the thing is that any other school would be glad to have him  _for a price,_  and that's the problem, isn't it, the one that would have been solved if  ~~Stanley had just~~  if Ford's invention had only kept working for one more damn day. But it hadn't, it had been  ~~maliciously~~  broken  ~~by the one person who should have known better, should have cared more~~  and now the most important moment of Ford's life has passed him by and all that's left to do is pick himself up and take stock of what's left in the aftermath. 

If anything is left at all.

_(If I'm not the smart guy, what am I?)_

So, Ford's mother is saying, "At least this Backupsmore sounds nice," with a watery kind of hope in her voice and Ford's nodding in agreement even though he doesn't agree, even though Backupsmore sounds a few syllables removed from the end of the line, from a tumbleweed across an empty street, from the pawnshop counter and Pa's spectacles and the desperate people with their little treasures and the bitterness that lurks behind the sea air. So, Ford's father's face is impassive and his eyes unreadable but he hasn't said a word to Ford since the science fair. So, Ford's nodding in agreement because what else is there, really, for an  ~~oddball~~   ~~deformed~~   ~~freakish~~   ~~weakling~~  for someone like him?

So, Ford's got a lot on his mind.

So, Ford can be forgiven for not leaping into action when the bell above the pawnshop door jangles. Maybe the rest of his miserable life is going to be spent behind this dingy counter, and he's none too eager to get practised at sinking teeth into desperate people as soon as they walk through the door.

"Oh, come now. Surely a bright young man such as yourself hasn't already given up all hope for his future?"

Ford looks up.

These aren't the usual pawnshop customers. The man's voice is too cultured, no hint of Jersey, pure English countryside. His suit is exquisitely tailored, cut to fit with careful consideration for the fact that he's seated in a wheelchair, and neither threadbare nor shiny at the knees and elbows. The younger man with him is more outlandishly dressed, but looks equally unconcerned with where his next meal will be coming from, a rarity among the pawnshop's regulars. (He also has the largest nose Ford has ever seen on another human being, and a warm, friendly smile that makes Ford feel like a heel for ever having had the first thought.)

Ford, automatically, tucks his hands below the counter.

Almost before Ford starts to move, the man in the suit is already speaking. "It's all right. There's no need to hide from us."

Ford doesn't mean to, but his eyes gravitate to the wheels of the chair the man is seated in. Slowly, Ford raises both hands, clasps them on the counter in front of him.

Somehow in the multitude of questions thronging his mind, a rude, abrupt "What are you doing here?" slips past his lips. Ford cringes as soon as the words escape him, embarrassed by how brash he sounds, how challenging,  ~~how much like~~  how rude, especially to a stranger who has been nothing but... Polite? Understanding? Eerily understanding, actually, in a way that puts Ford inexplicably in mind of the time when his mother, in the middle of one of her benders, had looked through him  ~~and his brother~~  and told him to beware false friends  ~~and Stanley to put his faith in shooting stars~~. Ford would've dismissed it as her usual hokum if it hadn't been for the way she'd looked at  ~~them~~  him. And given what's happened...

The stranger's smile, now, is entirely unlike Ford's ma's stare, but somehow Ford feels the same sort of shiver.

"We're here because it came to our attention that there was a remarkable young man here who might benefit from the kind of opportunity we have to offer." The man's smile widens. "Tell me, have you ever heard of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?"

...

So, Stan's living out of his car, and it's not so bad, really, living on a boat would've been pretty similar, though he'd always pictured him and Ford sticking to the tropics where they'd find a new treasure chest every week or so  ~~and never be this hungry or this cold~~ , but that's okay, at least now he can go wherever he wants and do whatever he wants and he doesn't have to listen to what anyone else says  ~~about him being worthless or hopeless or already as good as dead~~.

So, it's really not that bad. Really.

It's just,  ~~Stan keeps trying to turn around to tell jokes to somebody who isn't there~~  it's actually getting cold again, summer's starting to wither, and there's only so long you can live on the beach. It's just,  ~~Stan doesn't have anyone to talk to anymore and he's pretty sure the silence is actually driving him out of his mind~~  Stan's not sure what he's going to do when it starts to freeze.

It's just, people aren't all always exactly kind. Especially if Stan's scammed them recently. (Hey, it's a living.) It's just, there are plenty of people who think kids living on the beach are dangerous - or worse, unsightly. It's just, Stan's luck's been good so far, but even his luck can't hold forever.

And today, it looks like it's finally run out.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?" The leader of the pack of thugs who've cornered Stan down this blind alley smacks the crowbar he's carrying against the palm of his hand. "We told you to pay up or get lost, punk. And I still see you hanging around. Do. You. Have. My. Money."

Stan feels along the wall behind him, hoping for a door or other exit, but no such luck. "Look, I told you, if you just gimme a chance -"

The wall of muscle to Stan's left grunts and slams a fist like an entire ham into the brick wall beside him. "Out of chances."

"Okay okay okay okay," Stan says, trying to back away as the thugs advance, but the wall behind him is uncomfortably solid against his back and Stan can't see an escape route anywhere, and the crowbar makes a really unpleasant sound every time it smacks against the leader's hand, and all Stan can think about is how different it'd sound slamming into his head, and the space between him and the other three is closing faster than he can think -

The crowbar rises, and Stan throws out both hands, to push the thugs away or to protect his head or what, he's not sure, and he never gets the chance to find out. Because they catch fire.

So, that's a surprise.

..

"It's a boarding school?"

Ford turns a pen over and over in one sweaty palm. "It's...unusual. They're looking at offering college courses with an eye to being able to give doctoral students tenured positions within the school after graduation. I would stand an excellent chance of gaining a permanent teaching position with research privileges, if all goes well." A degree from Backupsmore wouldn't exactly be able to offer the same, and every time Ford isn't sure if it wouldn't be better to at least have a degree from an accredited institution - even if that degree from that institution would get him laughed out of his field - than to have a paid job with an institution that isn't yet recognised among the academic community, he looks over at his father and steels his resolve.

Ford's mother glances down at the glossy brochure spread out across the table, and Ford watches the way her lips purse. She's skeptical, which Ford can understand. He's not convinced himself. But there's no good choice he can make here. At least the dorms at Xavier's are guaranteed 100% bug-free.

It would've been so easy  ~~if only Stanley hadn't~~  -

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Ford's mother asks, looking up to catch his gaze, and Ford feels himself pinned to the spot by her stare. He can't help the bitter little thought that skitters across his mind - does it even matter what he wants?

"This is the best opportunity I have," Ford says.

His mother nods, like she knows exactly what he means, what he's not saying.

"It's a full scholarship?" Ford's father asks, without looking up from his newspaper. It's the first sentence he's said to Ford since the science fair. "And a guaranteed job at the end of it? You're damn right it's the best opportunity you have."

Ford's mother catches his eye again.

Ford breaks eye contact first, looking down as he takes the brochure back from his mother. "I'll call first thing tomorrow morning."

...

Stan stares across the shimmer of heat rising from his flaming hands at the three toughs. They stare back, and Stan can tell from their expressions that they have even less idea of what to do with this than he does.

"Hey! We got a problem here?"

The voice is young, female, fearless, coming from the open end of the alley. The leader of the thugs shoots one last nervous glance at Stan, who tries to look like he meant to light his own hands on fire and definitely knows what to do with them now that he has, before half-turning to look down the alley. Stan looks over the tough's shoulder, catches glimpses of red hair, crossed arms, a scowl.

The next voice comes from somewhere directly over Stan's head, making all four people in the alley's heads shoot up. " 'Cause we can cause one." 

It takes Stan a moment to locate the gangly, dark-haired teen perched on the fire escape overhead. In his black clothes, he nearly vanishes.

Stan doesn't see anything intimidating about a couple of fourteen-year-olds trying to sound brave, but apparently the thugs who were threatening him do. They cast scared looks from one end of the alley to the other, before turning and nearly falling over each other as they scramble to run away. The girl steps aside as they stumble out of the alley, slipping along the wall to get by and walking up to Stan. Her scowl fades into a look of genuine concern as she asks, "Hey. You all right, man?"

"I'm on fire, do I look all right?"

The girl glances down. "Yeah, actually, you do. You know you're not actually burning yourself, right? And you, like, already stopped burning."

Stan glances down. She's right.

There's a flapping sound and a rush of air, and the boy lands on the pavement beside the girl, casually leaning over to sling an arm across her shoulders like he didn't just drop a full storey without so much as a wince. "Seriously, what kind of a dork doesn't know how his own powers work? Pssh. Loser."

The girl gives him a shove. "Ugh. Robbie, don't be an ass." 

"How many times do I have to tell you, it's  _Nighthawk_!"

"Fine, Nighthawk, whatever." The girl turns back to Stan, shooting him an apologetic smile. "Don't mind Robbie, apparently his mutation is a total inability to keep his big mouth shut. I'm Wendy. Don't worry, whatever loserbreath here says, we're on your side."

"Really? Great. You, uh, mind telling me what side that is?" Stan waves a hand at about eye level. "And what the hell's going on?"

Robbie's upper lip curls into a sneer that looks at home on his skinny face. "Look, geezer, is this, like, your first time or -"

Wendy elbows him in the ribs and he doubles over, gasping. She doesn't even spare him a second glance, her eyes fixed on Stan's face. "Oh,  _dude_. This is really the first time that's happened to you?"

Stan furiously doesn't say a word, but the girl winces anyway, letting out a low whistle. "Wow. Okay. That sucks, man. Definitely thought you got kicked out for manifesting, not, like, the other way around."

"That's great. What the hell're you talking about?"

In answer, Wendy winds up and puts her fist through the brick wall beside her.

While Stan's still trying to pick his jaw up off the pavement, Wendy extracts her fist from the wall, brushing bits of brick dust from her bare knuckles and her arm.

"We're mutants, man," she says, offhand, casual, and Stan's mind does some traitorous flipping through the photo album of his memories, of every insult ever hurled in Ford's direction. "Genetic anomalies. Like, superheroes."

 _"Homo superior_ ," Robbie says, with a twist of his perpetual sneer that Stan thinks is supposed to be a smile. "The next step in human evolution."

"Okay, we get it, we're so super great, sheesh," Wendy sighs, with a roll of her eyes. "Nobody actually buys that stuff, dude."

"It's not just 'stuff', it's the catalyst for our liberation from an oppressive society that has no place for us, and ultimately our tool to dismantle that society and build a new one in our image.  _Duh_."

Wendy shrugs one shoulder in Robbie's direction. "I mean, Karl Marx over there isn't actually  _wrong_ , but... Look, just come hang with us for a bit? I know it's scary right at first, but we...might be able to explain, maybe make things a little easier on you. Plus, we were just on our way to grab some pizza."

If Stan's head had any objections, they're quickly overruled by his stomach.

...

"Now, I may not be an expert, but I'm pretty sure it helps ta settle in if'n you unpack, instead a packing back up." The young man who had come on the recruiting trip to meet Ford is leaning against the door of Ford's room, and Ford tries hard not to look, not to meet that mild, friendly smile. "What's the matter?"

"I'm not staying," Ford says, stuffing a sweatervest into his suitcase with unprecedented viciousness. "I should have known that this would be some kind of - menagerie, freakshow - but no, I was stupid enough to think you were interested in me because of my invention!"

"We are," the young man says, sounding mildly confused. His accent is down-home, folksy, incongruous with both his appearance and the setting and oddly charming despite - or perhaps because - of that incongruity. Ford wishes he didn't have to listen to it. It would be easier to be angry with someone who sounded less...well, less personable, he supposes.

"Really?" Ford has to stop, leaning heavily against the closed lid of his suitcase as he turns to face the other man. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks more like you're interested in -" He raises one hand to about eye level, giving it a waggle for good measure.

The young man blinks behind his spectacles, before breaking into one of those broad grins that makes Ford feel instantly comfortable. It's infuriating, especially right now. "Well, that too, but -"

"Do you think I don't have eyes? Or a brain to put two and two together? The children here are all - all clearly physically abnormal in some way, and  _you_  and the professor, the ones running the place -"

The young man meets Ford's eyes, then glances down. Ford follows his line of sight down to the young man's bare feet, and - oh.  _Oh_.

"Some of us hide it better'n others," the young man says, and he sounds almost sheepish, tucking one simian-looking...appendage behind his other ankle with a self-consciousness that Ford knows all too well. "And some of us, it don't show right out on the surface...but none of us here's what I guess you'd call 'normal'."

Ford's mouth feels cottony, like he's just returned from the dentist. When he finds his voice, the words that come out are hesitant, uncertain. "I - I didn't mean -"

" 'Course ya didn't." The young man's smile is understanding and instantly forgiving, which only makes Ford feel worse. "Name's Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Why don't we swing on down by the labs and you show me how this perpetual motion machine of yours is supposed ta work? And maybe I can shed some light on what we're trying to do here."

...

"...and this is Soos." Wendy gestures to the... young man? Hairless giant rodent? "He's supernaturally huggable."

Soos bows his head with what looks like completely sincere solemnity. "Alas, this is my cross to bear."

"So yeah. That's the gang." Wendy grabs a slice of pizza from the box and flops onto the threadbare couch, pointing at the pizza box with her foot as she stuffs the slice into her mouth. "Dude, stop staring at it and eat some. You look like you're gonna start drooling."

Stan wants to make some snappy comeback, but he can't think of anything good and he really is about to start drooling all over the cracked linoleum. He tries not to look too desperate as he chooses a slice of plain cheese pizza, but he hasn't had a hot, fresh meal like this in how long, he doesn't know. Nothing he's ever eaten in his entire life could possibly have tasted this good. He's pretty sure there are tears in his eyes as soon as he takes the first bite.

"Hey, man, nobody's gonna try and take it away," the blonde guy Wendy had called Lee - or was that Nate? - says, from somewhere on the ceiling. "You can slow down."

Stan glowers in his general direction, but he grabs another slice and settles into one of the mismatched armchairs regardless. 

Wendy kicks both feet up on the battered coffee table, between the boxes of pizza, sliding further down in her seat. "So, yeah. This is us. We're all weirdos, like you. You ask Robbie and you'll get a buncha political theory and bullshit about 'cells' and separatism and stuff, but that's all the Brotherhood really is, man. Just us trying to look out for each other."

The girl Wendy had called 'Timber' or something that sounded like it doesn't look up from the magazine she's got her nose buried in. " 'Cause nobody else will."

Stan takes another humongous bite of pizza rather than respond to that.

"Okay, but none of this is explaining just what the hell happened to me today," he says, after he's finished chewing and swallowing. "Like, is this just a thing that happens now? I'm just gonna start on fire every now and again?"

"Maybe," the boy called Thompson says. "Sometimes it's involuntary, sometimes you can develop voluntary control, although it's sometimes easier if it manifests after puberty. It all depends on how the X-gene mutation is expressed - ow! What was that for?" 

Nate - or maybe this one was Lee? - tries, with little success, to look like he hadn't just slingshotted a rubber band across the room at Thompson.

"I dunno, man. What were you doing when it happened? I mean, not, like, getting shaken down in an alley, but what did you do to start it?" Wendy asks, sounding genuinely curious, and Stan looks down at his hands, remembering.

He'd been so scared, and felt so trapped, and he'd been so determined not to go down like that, helpless and alone. There had to be something he could still do, something, anything...

It's a strange kind of...push, without moving, and a little blue tongue of flame licks up off Stan's thumb and scorches the crust of his pizza. It goes out again a second later, but Stan's still staring at his hand in astonishment when both Lee and Nate break out into loud whooping and cheering.

Stan honestly can't remember the last time somebody cheered for him, for any reason. It's...nice.

"What, what was so impressive about that? Huh, my lighter can do that," Robbie grumbles, and Wendy gives him a sock in the arm.

"Don't listen to him, dude, that was sick! Do it again!"

Stan concentrates. This time, the little flame lasts for nearly a full minute, and he has to shake his hand to put it out because his pizza's caught fire. The next few minutes are a flurry of trying to put out droplets of flaming grease, and Tim- Tambry! That's her name, shrieking when Lee and Nate drip melted cheese across her magazine.

Stan sits back, watching the people talking and laughing and teasing each other, feeling the warm weight of the meal in his stomach, and feels a traitorous smile creep across his face. He looks around quickly, to see if anyone else has noticed, but only Soos is looking in his direction. When he meets Stan's eye, he grins, a smile to mirror Stan's own, and Stan quickly looks away. Still, it's not enough to quash the smile.

He's not alone anymore.

...

Fiddleford has only been looking over Ford's blueprints for ten minutes before he hums and says, "Just like I 'spected." 

"What? What do you mean?"

Fiddleford plants a finger square in the middle of Ford's careful technical drawings. "You got frost gathering on this bearing when you built this puppy, didn't ya?"

"Wh- well, I suppose so, but I don't see -"

"Stanford," Fiddleford says, looking Ford square in the eyes, "this here ain't a perpetual motion machine."

Ford pinches the bridge of his nose, behind his glasses, wishing - possibly for the first time in his life - that he was at Backupsmore instead. "Of course it's a perpetual motion machine. What else would it be if it weren't a perpetual motion machine?"

Fiddleford considers, for a moment. "Well, in my professional opinion as a trained engineer, a heap o' junk. If anybody else'd built these blueprints, that spinner wouldn'ta started moving to begin with." Before Ford can give voice to his outrage, Fiddleford has grabbed onto one of Ford's hands, looking over the palm with an absolute lack of concern, and Ford is so speechless with fury that he can't even interrupt as Fiddleford goes on. "Perpetual motion's physically impossible, anyway. Something's gotta power it. It's just with this here blueprint, you're the power source."

Ford feels a bit like a skipping record as he asks, for the third time in a handful of minutes, "What? That's not - but I built it, it was working -" until my brother broke it, he doesn't add - "and I certainly wasn't touching it -"

"You wouldn'ta had to," Fiddleford continues, unconcerned by Ford's apparent distress. "So long's nothing changed, you coulda kept that thing running for...oh, days. You had something to give it a jumpstart, right?"

"I - yes, there was a small battery, but after the initial push -"

"There ya go. Same principle." Fiddleford gives Ford's hand an absent-minded pat, like it's a lab animal he's particularly fond of, before letting go. "You wanted it to work - really wanted it, if I know anything about West Coast Tech - so you made it work. Ever hear of energy manipulation?"

Ford stiffens. "If you dragged me down here to insult and dismiss my scientific findings with a bunch of pseudoscientific hocus pocus, you might as well come back upstairs and help me pack my bags."

"No, no, not like that. I'm not talking about mysterious forces governing the universe or whatnot." Fiddleford waves a hand dismissively, and Ford has to admit to a grudging kernel of respect lodging itself somewhere in his currently very mixed impression of Fiddleford. "I'm talkin' physical excitation of electrons. Looks like you can do it. Subconsciously, even. It ain't a common skill, you'd be the first."

Ford's fully aware that he looks like an idiot when he asks, "What?" yet again.

Fiddleford smiles, that beaming grin that Ford is sort of starting to want to punch. "Ya got frost buildup 'cause you were funneling ambient energy in th'form o' heat into this baby as mechanical energy ta keep 'er running. Nobody woulda been able ta tell until ya collapsed from exhaustion or somethin' interfered with the machine. It looks like perpetual motion. But it ain't. It's you."

Ford can't think of a single coherent way to respond to this. Eventually, the needle on the record player in his mind drops into a familiar groove, and what comes out is, "That's impossible."

Fiddleford's smile is almost blinding. "Says the man who tried ta build a perpetual motion machine. Look, this school's run by a man what reads minds. There's a pair of twins here, students, the girl can vanish on cue and the boy runs fit to break th'sound barrier. You wanna stick around - and believe you me, we want you to stick around - and you'll have ta get used to a little impossibility every now and again."

It's very likely something, somewhere in the depths of Ford's brain, has short-circuited. He nods, only half listening, half considering the possibilities that Fiddleford's words have opened up.

"I should be able to do this at will, shouldn't I?" he asks, and Fiddleford shrugs.

"Some can, some can't, some are just certified geniuses with hands for feet." He laughs. "It looks different for most."

Ford nods, considering. There's so much that could go wrong, so many variables to consider, but -

It's a curious sensation, like pushing against a heavy weight without actually moving, only to have the weight suddenly give way. Ice crackles across the floor, racing in jagged crystals away from Ford's feet, and all around the room, the temperature plummets as the lab machinery whirs to life.

Ford looks over to Fiddleford, and finds the other man crouched on the table beside Ford's blueprint, offering another sheepish grin. "Sorry. 'S damn cold with no shoes."

"I'm so sorry!" Ford says, but he can't keep the grin off his face. It fades a little when he tries to take a step closer and discovers that his feet are now frozen to the floor, but he still can't stop. This is, without a doubt, the most amazing thing that's ever happened to him - that he's ever done. There's no way he can walk away after this.

His life is just starting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, the science in this one is total bullshit. I'm working off of a poor and half-remembered understanding of twelfth-grade physics and the pseudoscience Marvel used to make Iceman possibly The Most Powerful Mutant In The World. It's comics, it doesn't have to work in real life. But just in case: no, this would not work in real life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I actually did have enough material to continue this, and a conclusion all but already written, so...here we are! There’ll be one more chapter after this. 
> 
> This one gets political, so if you’re sensitive to depictions of institutionalised oppression when it’s aimed at a fictional minority, maybe tread carefully.
> 
> Thanks as always to the illustrious [seiya234](seiya234.tumblr.com) for betaing!

"I mean, who even needs an electric guitar, anyway?" Wendy gestures wildly with both arms, before tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Anyway, that's why we always end up hanging out at Soos' place. Seriously, who even leaves expensive things they care a lot about just lying around where anybody can trip over them?"

"You're asking me," Stan mutters, stuffing his own hands into the pockets of his jacket and hunching down into his collar.

Something catches his eye as they pass by a storefront full of TV sets, and he reaches out to snag Wendy's sleeve. "Hey. What's this about?"

Wendy stops and turns, watching the newsanchor's head speaking silently into the empty street as the leadlines scroll across the bottom of the screen. "What the shit? 'Mutant Control Act'? Fuck you, man, we're people, not assault rifles!"

"Speak for yourself," Stan starts, but Wendy doesn't look away from the TV set, glaring like she's the one who can light fires with her mind. Stan glances back at the set to see what she's staring at, sees the smiling face of a dark-haired, expensively-dressed man he vaguely recognises and a woman and girl who must be his family, waving from a press-conference pulpit.

Wendy's lip curls. "Ugh. Of  _course_  it's Senator Northwest. That smug sack of crap really thinks he's saving the world." She rolls her eyes as she turns away from the storefront, kicking a pebble on the sidewalk harder than it really deserves. The pebble vanishes, and somewhere down the street Stan thinks he can hear something shatter. "Forget it. Let's go get the guys and celebrate what's left of our freedom with some ice cream or something."

"Only if you're buying, short stuff," Stan says, and Wendy gives him a friendly slug in the arm. It still hurts.

...

"Are you warm enough? I hear it gets cold up there. Do you need any more sweaters?"

"Ma, I'm fine," Ford sighs, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. "The ones you sent me are more than enough."

"Okay. Well, I don't want you to get cold."

Ford lets a little frost play along the cord wound around his fingers, unable to suppress a smile. It's growing familiar by now, the faint push and tug of his - powers! - but it still feels new and amazing every time he uses them. "Thanks, ma."

There's a moment of silence, and then Ford's mother asks, tentatively, "Are you doing all right up there? Are you making friends?" There's a note of mock-sternness in her voice as she adds, "They feeding you all right?"

" _Ma_." Ford can't quite keep the fond exasperation out of his voice. "They're feeding me just fine. And yes, I'm eating my vegetables."

"Well, good." There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then, "Don't think I'm just gonna forget I asked because you didn't answer. You made any friends?"

The smile that comes to Ford's face is unbidden and surprising. "You know, I think I have?"

He somehow manages not to be insulted by the relief in his mother's voice when she says, "Oh, good." There's another short hesitation, and Ford is just about to start telling her all about Fiddleford when she blurts, "You talked to your brother lately?"

The smile drops off of Ford's face so fast he can feel it. " _No_." Ice drips from the receiver.

"Oh." The resignation that colours her tones almost makes Ford feel guilty, for a moment, before he reminds himself what Stanley had gladly, remorselessly done to take away the one thing Ford had worked for, had earned. "Well, I got a feeling you'll be seeing him before I do. Give him my love when you do, willya?"

I don't plan to ever see Stanley again, Ford doesn't say. Instead, he forces a grin. "I've got to go, Ma, there's someone else here waiting for the phone."

"Okay. I love you, my little scientist." Her voice sounds oddly thick as she adds, "Be safe."

"I will. Love you too." Ford waits a moment to be sure all the goodbyes are said before he hangs the receiver back in the cradle.

The girl leaning against the wall a little way down the hall - Starla? Carla? Something like that - pops her gum as she straightens up. "Finally," she says, heading for the phone. "You know, you're not the only one here with a family."

Ford doesn't dignify this with a response.

...

The TV set is already on when Stan wanders into Soos' living room, news playing, sound up, every eye riveted. It's unusual enough for this crowd, who usually only have cartoons or sitcoms on as background noise if the TV's on at all.

"Who died?" Stan asks, scratching his back under his undershirt and half wishing he'd thought to put on pants. Soos has to be some kind of saint or something, letting Stan crash with him for now, and of course Stan's going to be eternally grateful or whatever, but there's something to be said for not stumbling out of the guest room of somebody else's house and into a roomful of people while only in your boxers.

Tambry gestures towards the set, her eyes never leaving the screen. "We don't, like, know yet."

"Shit, seriously? Somebody's actually dead?" Stan abandons his scratching, shuffling further into the room to get a better look at the screen.

Robbie shoots a scowl in Stan's direction, but that's what his face usually looks like so Stan doesn't pay it any particular attention. "They're calling it a riot. There's two people down so far, and that's just the ones we know about."

"No way that started as a riot," Lee - or possibly Nate, Stan still isn't quite sure which is which, and he's starting to think that maybe he's never gonna know for sure - says, with an expansive gesture towards the TV set. "Check out those picket signs."

"Check out those  _cops_ ," Nate - or maybe it's Lee - adds. "Armed for bear, man. They're talking about how they were 'forced to dispel rioters' with rubber bullets, tear gas, all that kind of shit. How much you wanna bet they go home and jerk it in their body armour?" It's a joke, the crude kind that's Lee and Nate's usual fare, but nobody's laughing. The living room is so quiet that Stan can actually hear the TV.

Something about the silence strikes a hollow note, and Stan asks, "Where's Wendy?"

Robbie kicks his feet up on the sofa, tucking his hands behind his head. "Don't look at me, man. She was the one who thought protesting might actually change something. Like they weren't just going to mess it up to make us look violent and dangerous and use it as another excuse to pass this dumb anti-mutant act. I tried to warn her, but..." He shrugs, a complicated manoeuvre with his hands still behind his head, but somehow he manages it. "You know how idealistic girls are."

He doesn't seem to notice the way everyone in the room turns to glare at him at first. Maybe it's because he's too busy staring at the inferno that's erupted around each of Stan's fists.

"You thought this was gonna happen and you let her go out there on her own anyway?" Stan asks, and it feels like he's walking on thin ice, hearing it crackle underfoot.

Robbie looks to either side, quickly averting his eyes so he doesn't meet Tambry's gaze head-on, but finds no sympathy.

"Dude," the one Stan's reasonably sure is Nate says, and it seems like a binding verdict.

"If she doesn't dump your ass after this, you can definitely control minds," Probably-Lee agrees.

"If she even makes it back," Thompson adds, the usual quaver in his voice so pronounced that it's almost painful to listen to. 

Tambry doesn't say anything, but there's something about the way she's staring at Robbie that makes Stan glad all of a sudden that she's always pouring all her attention into books and magazines.

Robbie raises both hands, palms up, in a universal gesture of offended innocence. "What? Guys, it's  _Wendy_. She's fine! She'd probably just be insulted if she thought I thought she couldn't take care of herself."

"That's not the point and you know it," Stan says, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't at least a little proud of the way Robbie jumps at the sound of his voice. "What happened to all this Three Musketeers crap, huh? All for one and one for mutantkind?"

Robbie pushes himself up off the couch, jabbing an index finger in Stan's direction. "Look, just because I refuse to compromise my political ideals by joining a protest I know won't make any difference -"

"That what you call it?" It takes real effort of will to damp the flames, but Stan manages it, sticking his pinkie in his ear and giving it a good cleaning out. " 'Cause from here it looks like you ran away and hid because you were too scared to actually stand up for any of this shit you keep spewing."

Robbie's usual scowl deepens. "Oh...oh yeah? What, am I supposed to be, like, upset by this? 'Cause I'm not! And - and who do you think you are, anyway, coming in here and telling us how to do our activism? You only just found out you even were a mutant, like, a month ago! And -"

"Oh my god, Robbie, shut up," Tambry drones, turning back to the TV set. Stan's pretty sure Robbie's about to explode. He's expecting another outburst, but instead Robbie just kicks the leg of the couch and storms off towards the kitchen. Stan can hear a soft 'ow' as he goes.

"Right." Stan sighs, taking one last glance at the screen before closing his eyes. "I'm gonna go put on pants, and then I'm going to get Wendy. You can all come if you want." A thought strikes him, and he adds, "Somebody should stick around until Soos gets back from work, though, in case we need bail or something."

He looks at the wide eyes of the kids arrayed around the living room, and suddenly feels very, very old.

"You don't gotta come," he says, at last. "It's fine. I got it. Just - just need some pants first."

...

With Fiddleford gone, Ford doesn't spend as much time in the labs. The engineering end of things is more Fiddleford's specialty, after all, and since finding out how his invention had really been working, Ford's been much more interested in biology anyway.

He's worked halfway through the school's collection of literature on X-gene mutations by the day Fiddleford's due back from Washington. The article Ford's currently reading, concerning something the author refers to as 'secondary mutations', doesn't seem particularly well-researched but does have Ford wondering how his extra digits fit in. Everything he's ever read on polydactyly has suggested that even one fully-formed, usable additional finger is exceedingly rare, especially in humans (though not, for whatever reason, in felines). But given everything he's read so far, if this X-gene is involved -

"Dipper!"

The voice is young, female, exasperated, and above all else, entirely too loud for a library. Ford looks up, and immediately spots the twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl standing in the doorway, arms folded across the smiling sun knitted into her sweater. Anyone wearing that much neon and glitter would be impossible to miss, even if she weren't yelling in a library. "Ooh! Dipper, if you're hiding in here again -"

She stops when she spots Ford, marching over to his table. " 'Scuse me, have you seen a boy who looks exactly like me, or maybe a brownish-bluish blur going by at really high speed? My brother - oh my gosh, you've got extra fingers!"

Ford tucks both hands below the table and frowns, but the girl isn't finished. A huge, beaming smile covers her face, and she slaps both palms against Ford's table, leaning over to grin directly into his face. "That's so cool! I bet your handshakes are a full finger friendlier than normal!" She sticks a hand out, like she's expecting a handshake. "Hi! I'm Mabel Pines, I'm thirteen, I have a twin brother and I can turn invisible!"

Ford hesitantly reaches up to shake her proffered hand, certain his own smile must reflect the bewilderment he feels. "Stanford Pines, but please, call me Ford. Nice to meet you, Mabel."

Mabel gives Ford's arm two enthusiastic pumps before pulling her hand away, clapping both hands to her cheeks with an enormous gasp. "Oh my gosh, you're a Pines too? I bet we're long-lost cousins!"

Ford can't help but smile himself. "Well, now that you mention it, there is a certain resemblance. Is it your twin you're looking for?"

"Yup!" Mabel squares her hands against her hips, looking around the library with a surprisingly convincing scowl. "But he's being a total  _poopyhead_!" The last word is called out to the library at large.

"I'm sure he'll find you when he's ready," Ford says, and Mabel blows out a breath over her upper lip in an exasperated huff.

"Okay, well, if you see him, will you tell him I'm looking for him? And that he's being dumb and  _nobody cares if your mutation has nothing to do with punching, Dipper_!" Mabel actually cups her hands around her mouth in a makeshift megaphone to yell the last part. Ford winces.

"Mabel, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this  _is_  a library."

"Oh yeah, oops!" Mabel's grin turns sheepish, and she bobs her head. "Nice meeting you! Mabel, awaaayyy!"

She holds out both arms at her sides as she runs out of the library, the sleeves of her sweater flapping like wings. Ford can't help but smile as he watches her go.

"Is she gone?"

The voice comes from right at Ford's elbow, accompanied by a gust of air that sends shivers down the back of his neck, and he nearly falls out of his chair in surprise. The journal Ford had been reading is blown to the floor, but before it can land, a boy who looks remarkably like Mabel grabs it and hands it back to Ford. "Sorry!"

"You must be Mabel's twin," Ford says, after a moment to collect himself.

Dipper makes a face. "Please don't tell her I'm here. Don't get me wrong, I love my sister, but...I just want to be alone for a while."

"Don't worry, I understand completely." Ford smiles at Dipper, who smiles back.

"What are you reading?" Dipper asks, leaning in to get a better look at the cover of the journal Ford's holding, and Ford holds it up so Dipper can see more easily.

"This article regarding secondary mutations. I must admit, I had no idea there was such a breadth and depth of study on human mutation already. I barely knew the community existed before coming here."

"Really? Oh man, that's got to be weird. I can't remember ever not knowing about what we are." Dipper goes to lean against the table, but misses, staggering a little as he catches his balance. He tries to brush it off like it hadn't happened, but his cheeks burn red. "Our - oops! Uh, our mom's a mutant too, she made sure we grew up knowing all about - our heritage, I guess. Honestly, we almost didn't come here, we don't really need it like some of these kids do, but she thought we could use some friends like us our own age."

There's something about his tone that makes Ford say, "It hasn't worked out."

Dipper rubs his upper arm uncomfortably. "Mabel's made some really good friends."

Ford nods. "She has what my mother would call 'personality'." 

Dipper stuffs both hands into the pockets of his puffy vest and shrugs. "Maybe it'd be easier if I could do anything other than run away really fast."

Ford drums his fingers against the table. This is clearly an emotional subject for Dipper, but Ford has only just met him, after all. And he's dying to ask. "You and Mabel must be fraternal twins, then, to be opposite sexes and have different mutations."

Dipper scuffs the library carpet with one foot, suddenly very reluctant to meet Ford's eyes. "I, uh, actually have some theories about that. Well, one theory, and it mostly just came from having to watch her on a sugar high one too many times, but - sometimes you can still see this weird shimmer when Mabel's invisible. I think she might actually just be vibrating too fast to see."

"Really? So that would mean that it  _is_  the same mutation, but the way it's expressed - and theoretically, in that case, you could learn to 'disappear' the same way Mabel does, and -" Ford pats down his pockets, hoping he remembered the little coil-bound notebook he's taken to carrying on him to jot down notes and theories of his own. "It makes sense, especially in the case of identical twins - but that still doesn't explain...?"

"Doesn't really help me with my noodle arms, either," Dipper says, a little too quickly to be casual. Or maybe he's just a poor judge of normal speed, Ford wouldn't be surprised. "Mabel keeps saying there's still time for me to develop super strength or something, when she's not teasing me about her being the alpha twin." He rolls his eyes.

"Well, I don't see why it matters what kind of physical strength you have," Ford starts, standing up to see if he tucked the notebook in his back pants pocket for some reason, and Dipper makes a face like he's in pain.

" _Please_  don't say something about how it's what's on the inside that counts."

"Hmm? No, I was just going to say that at the kinds of speeds you're moving, all you really need to do is transfer your momentum into force and you could knock out any opponent before they even had a chance to touch you. The hard part would be not breaking your arms, of course, though if you're already moving at such high velocities, you have to have adapted for that somehow, or the damage sheer air resistance would do to your tissue alone -"

Ford stops. Dipper's eyes are wide as saucers, and he's staring up at Ford like Ford is President of the United States and Santa Claus rolled into one.

"That's so simple," Dipper says, and there's nothing but pure awe in his voice. "But like, really smart!"

Ford might have said something clever in response, but it's then that he catches sight of his notebook, lying on the floor where it must have been knocked from the table when Dipper arrived. He smiles, though it feels awkward on his own face, and bends down to grab the book.

He's still leaning over when an echoing boom shakes the halls. It takes Ford a moment to parse that it's an immensely deep, loud voice calling Dipper's - name? Nickname?

"Oh no," Dipper says, "Mabel enlisted Candy and Grenda to find me. I gotta go. But thanks!"

"You're -" Ford starts, but by the time he straightens up, Dipper has already vanished. "Welcome?"

...

The first thing out of Soos' mouth when Stan drags Wendy in is, "Oh, dude."

"I'm fine, Soos, nothing's broken," Wendy grumbles, leaning on Stan as he helps her over to one of the kitchen chairs. 

"That black eye does not look fine, dude," Soos says, with a note of finality. "I'm getting you some, like, frozen peas to put on that."

"It'll go away," Wendy says. "God, I can't believe how stupid that was! I can't believe I actually thought it would matter if I tried to do something. Lesson learned: never try at anything, ever." She kicks halfheartedly at the rungs of the dilapidated wooden chair, and they creak alarmingly.

"Hey, that's not true," Soos says, very seriously, emerging from behind the freezer door. "Is there, like, some special reason you gotta put frozen peas on somebody's face if they get a black eye? 'Cause I think all we have are frozen carrots."

Wendy throws out an arm, palm up, without looking at Soos. "Just give 'em here, Soos."

"Okay, dude, but if that shiner gets worse, I'm blaming the carrots."

Wendy presses the bag of frozen vegetables to her face, wincing when the cold comes into contact with her black eye. She kicks her feet up on the seat of the chair across from her, toeing off her heavy black boots, and Stan takes the opportunity to peek at her ankles, make sure neither of them look swollen. Sure, nothing's broken, but she hadn't been walking right when he picked her up.

Finally, Wendy heaves a breath that sounds like it's trying to become a sob, and lets her head fall back over the back of the chair.

"This is so stupid," she says, like she's trying to laugh, but her throat is closing over the words. "Why can't they just leave us alone?"

Stan pulls out a chair of his own, leaning both elbows against its back. "Since when has anybody left anything that's none of their business alone? Human nature, kiddo. Look on the bright side, at least you didn't get tear-gassed."

Wendy lets out a long, heartfelt groan.

There's a clock hanging on the wall above the stove, one of those ones shaped like a cat with big eyes and a tail that click back and forth with each second it ticks off. Stan eyes it suspiciously.

"I didn't want anybody to get hurt," Wendy says, at last, in a very small voice, the one eye she doesn't have the bag of frozen carrots pressed against squeezed shut.

Stan and Soos share a look.

"I almost didn't go because I didn't wanna cause trouble if - if something went wrong, I mean, I know it's easier for me to hurt people without really trying and I didn't wanna make things worse if - something like this happened, but then Robbie was being such an asshole about the protests and making fun of people for being dumb enough to care and I just - I know I shouldn't've gone alone but I was pissed off and I just -" 

Wendy throws an arm in the air, before letting it flop back. "Forget it. It was stupid. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but even if he was being a total prick about it, Robbie -" She makes a low, disgusted noise in the back of her throat. " _Nighthawk_  is right."

"You sure you didn't hit your head back there?" Stan starts to ask, but Wendy goes on as though she hasn't heard him, her voice soft and defeated in the quiet of the little yellow kitchen. 

"It doesn't matter what we do. They're just gonna think of us as monsters anyway. And they're never gonna listen to us unless we make them listen."

She doesn't move when Soos walks over, doesn't open her eyes, but she gladly flops face-first against his ample stomach when he wraps both arms around her, enveloping her in a hug.

...

Fiddleford's face is grim when he walks through the mansion's doors, trailing behind the rest of the staff who'd gone with the Professor to Washington. His expression lightens when he spots Ford, but Ford would hardly say that his face lights up. 

"How'd it go?" Ford asks, falling into step beside Fiddleford, and Fiddleford wrinkles his distinctive nose in an expression of clear disgust.

"Well, I'm darn glad to be back, that's for sure. Lemme come find you once I'm unpacked?" He flashes a grin that only looks a little forced. "Gimme a chance to kick my shoes off."

Ford's in the library when Fiddleford finally does come to find him, looking less grim but more disgruntled. "That was a bigger waste a time than shavin' hogs."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Ford says, as Fiddleford collapses into the seat opposite him. "I gather things didn't go well?"

"That's the understatement of the year. They don't wanna hear anything we got to say. Kept shunting th'time a our address back and forth without telling us, shuffling us off on nobodies, trying ta brush us off. Ain't nobody up there interested in hearing us out - leastwise, not anybody with any influence. They ain't pulling that act and they ain't reviewing it." He shakes his head, adjusting his glasses with unwarranted vehemence. "Nobody's coming right out and saying it - not to our faces - but they're all running scared and more'n glad somebody finally got the guts to do something about us freaks."

Ford can't speak, for a moment. It feels almost like a couple of his neurons have crossed, blocking the path from his brain to his tongue.

When he finally finds his voice, all that comes out is, "That's absurd."

"I know."

"I knew there had to be prejudice in the upper levels of government for such an act to even be proposed, and the rioting can't have helped our public image, but - not to even hear out a lawful, peaceful petition from one of the most respected -"

"Stanford, I  _know!_ " Fiddleford coughs into his hand, visibly collecting himself. "But that don't matter to 'em. Far as they know or care, we're all just time bombs lookin' for an excuse to explode."

"I - I thought the whole point of this school, of the X-Men, was to challenge that perception -"

"We can't change the world all by our lonesome, sadly. And people see all these superpowered types coming outta the woodwork, or at least it looks like outta the woodwork to them, and...they get scared." Fiddleford leans forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. "And when they get scared, they get stupid." 

It almost feels like Ford's hands close into fists of their own accord, squeezing as tightly as he can, feeling his nails digging into the heels of his palms. It takes him a moment to realise his hands are growing numb, not only because of how hard he’s clenching them, but because his fingers are encased in ice. Ford only manages to uncurl them through enormous effort of will.

“Bullies are bullies wherever you go,” he says, and he’s not certain whether he’s speaking to Fiddleford or to himself.

Fiddleford makes a face. “You c’n say that again.”

Just the thought is churning his gut, but Ford wouldn’t be Ford if he didn’t ask. “There’s legislation restricting our gathering and forming associations in the act, isn’t there? Prohibition of all unlicensed organizations and some ridiculous, arbitrary requirements for obtaining a license?”

Fiddleford nods.

“What happens to this place if it passes?”

Fiddleford shuts his eyes, and Ford has to physically resist the urge to ball his hands into fists again.

“We can’t let that happen.”

“I ain’t sure there’s much we c’n do ta stop it.”

Ford slams both palms flat against the library table, pushing his chair back as he stands. His chair makes a ghastly noise as it scrapes against the hardwood floor, but for once Ford can’t bring himself to care. “I can’t accept that. This can’t be constitutional, there must be some point we can challenge it on or  _something_. And whatever it is, I’m going to find it.”

It’s not until he’s already stormed halfway out of the library that Ford realises he’s left his books neatly stacked on the table.

...

“Absolutely no fucking way.”

Wendy’s stare is impassive. “C’mon. You said yourself that peaceful protesting’s useless.”

Robbie throws both arms out, Tambry ducking to avoid being beaned in the head by one fingerless-gloved hand. “I didn’t mean we should go start kidnapping people!”

“Then what did you mean,  _Nighthawk_?” Wendy demands, crossing both arms over her chest. “Look, it’s simple. Senator Northwest’s the one behind this shit. His kid’s the only thing he cares more about than his family’s money and his stupid peacocks. This is the only way he’s ever gonna change his tune.”

“We can’t just kidnap people! They  _always_  catch kidnappers! I can’t go to prison!” Thompson starts, and Wendy shoots him a sidelong glare. 

“I dunno, man, Wendy’s got a point,” Possibly-Nate says, and Stan cranes his neck back to get a look at his face. “If the Brotherhood’s pulling this anyway, might as well be a part of it. I dunno about you guys, but I’m getting sick of just sitting around watching while everything goes to shit around us.” He shrugs, looking down from the ceiling at the others.

“Plus, the Northwests are, like, practically in our backyard,” Most-Likely-Lee agrees. “This might be our only chance to get in on some actual action. Robbie, dude, you could meet Magneto, like, in the flesh!”

“Oh man, this is so not what I signed up for,” Soos says, in an undertone, and Stan turns away from the bickering.

“What  _did_  you sign up for, anyway? I mean, no offence, but this -” Stan gestures at the political theatre that’s overtaken the living room - “doesn’t really sound like your kinda scene.”

Soos shrugs amiably, a smile spreading across his...well, honestly Stan always wants to call it a ‘snout’, but he’s not sure that’s the right word. “This Magneto guy, one of his big ideas is, like, an island for just mutants. Like someplace we could go and everybody’d just leave us alone. That sounds good to me, dude.”

Stan stuffs his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders up. “Yeah, right. Nah, Soos, only way to really solve problems is a good, hard left hook.”

Soos looks unconvinced, but he turns back to the living room and the fight anyway. “Whatever you say, dude.”

“Look, do any of you have any better ideas?” Wendy demands, hotly, and Stan shifts his attention back to her.

“I don’t know, how about not breaking the law?” Thompson whines, from the corner chair. “Did you forget the part about going to prison?”

Wendy rolls her eyes. “We have  _superpowers_ , Thompson, they can’t make us go anywhere we don’t want to. Look, we could keep arguing about this forever, or we could just vote on it. Who’s up for helping kidnap Pacifica Northwest?”

Not a single hand rises, and a seed of doubt blooms in the back of Stan’s mind. Maybe this really is a terrible idea, without any reason to even consider it. Wendy’s power didn’t prevent her from getting hurt at the protest, Stan’s certainly hadn’t kept him from being hungry and cold and homeless, and the consequences of getting caught at this are so much worse than anything they’ve ever gotten themselves into before. Besides, it’s just not right to snatch a little - an  _innocent_  little girl from her home and loved ones to use as a political pawn - 

“ _Thompson,_ ” Wendy growls between gritted teeth. “I know you’re doing the thing. Stop it.”

“Aww,” Thompson says, but the doubts fade back to background noise in Stan’s head, a few flying out altogether. Political pawn? Since when does he think like that?

“Wait, seriously? That’s his thing?” Stan asks, and the whole room turns to him (except for Tambry, whose eyes stay glued to the magazine in her lap). “Mind control? Why didn’t you take him to that rally? Hell, why not just drop him in Congress when they have to vote on this thing and skip the kidnapping shit altogether?”

“It only really works in about a ten-foot radius,” Thompson admits, gloomily. “And only with crowds of five or more people. Something to do with signal amplification.”

“Basically he’s useless,” Tambry says, to her magazine, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth. Stan catches a glimpse of a forked tongue before she bites down.

“All right,  _real_  vote this time,” Wendy says, climbing up on the coffee table despite Soos’ distressed expression. “Who thinks we should help kidnap the Northwests’ spoiled brat? Show of hands, guys.”

Lee and Nate exchange a glance, then raise their arms in unison. Wendy holds one arm above her head, putting her other hand on her hip and looking pointedly at Robbie, who reluctantly raises his hand.

“Soos, I’m not asking you, I know you don’t like it when we break the law - but you, new guy?” Wendy says, and Stan shrugs, forcing his expression not to shift, to keep a look of practiced indifference. 

“Sure, why not. Just don’t ask me to do any heavy lifting.”

Wendy nods, turning away, and Stan lets out a long breath, trying to act like his heart isn’t beating out of his chest, feeling like he’s just passed some kind of test and wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. “Tambry?”

Tambry shrugs, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She still doesn’t look up. “Whatever.”

“Boom. Majority rules,” Wendy says, stepping down off the coffee table and flopping heavily onto the couch. “Ugh, where’s the stupid remote?”

...

When Ford finally emerges from the blizzard of law texts and articles he’s buried himself under, deciding to call his mother back before she does something like call the cops to report him missing, he finds Dipper and Mabel huddled around the phone, holding the receiver close between them.

“Okay, Mom,” Dipper is saying, as Ford approaches. “Yeah, I love you too. Be safe.”

He waits a moment before turning the receiver toward Mabel, who smiles weakly at the sound of the voice on the other end of the line. “What do you mean? I’m always good. I’m better than good, I’m the best!” There’s a pause, and Mabel rolls her eyes, though her smile grows wider and looks more real. “Yeah? Well, I love you a million billion times! Wait, no, a trillion zillion! No, a squadrillion!”

A beat, a barely-audible buzz from the handset, and Dipper and Mabel both burst out laughing. Their ‘goodbye’s and ‘I love you’s overlap as they both try to speak into the receiver at once, a note of anxiety that Ford can’t help but notice bleeding through their voices. They hang up the phone only once they’ve all wished each other several times to stay safe.

Dipper is the first to notice Ford standing in the hall behind them. “Ohmigosh! Sorry, we didn’t realise you were waiting.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Ford says, taking in the way Mabel has flipped her long hair over her shoulder and is twisting it in both hands, the way Dipper’s hands are pressed so hard into the pockets of his puffy vest that Ford can all but see the outlines of his clenched fists against the fabric. “It must be difficult to be separated from your family at a time like this.”

Dipper and Mabel share a glance.

“Are  _you_  all right?” Mabel asks, looking up at Ford with genuine concern, and Ford finds himself utterly unable to respond.

“Don’t worry about me,” he manages, at last, squaring his shoulders and pushing out his chest as he imagines a soldier must. Mabel giggles, and Ford remembers too late that he’s still wearing the spaceship sweater his mother had bought him for his fifteenth birthday.

“Ahem. Yes. Well. I’m fine.” Ford bends down, to put himself on eye level with both Dipper and Mabel. “You’re both being very brave, but please don’t worry too much. There are a lot of people here working hard to find a way to stop this, myself included. I won’t let anything happen to you two.” He puts a hand on each of their shoulders, and they reluctantly look up to meet his eyes, Mabel biting her lip, Dipper glowering under his bangs. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Mabel’s lip quivers for a moment, and Ford is nearly knocked off his feet - both figuratively and literally - when she flings herself at him, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and pressing her face into the wool of his sweater. Ford, almost instinctively, curls an arm around her, patting her gently and (he hopes) soothingly on the back as she hiccups into his chest. He’s only slightly less surprised when Dipper follows suit.

They detach eventually, Dipper laughing sheepishly like he can’t believe what he just did, Mabel surreptitiously wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “Thanks,” she says, and there’s a sad warble in her voice. “Sorry I got snot on your sweater.”

“That’s quite all right,” Ford says, reaching over to give Mabel’s hair a ruffle.

Dipper tucks one foot behind the other ankle, clearing his throat. “Mabel, he wanted to use the phone.”

“Haha, right.” Mabel backs away, but she still manages a watery smile.

Dipper starts to walk away as well, but pauses, looking back at Ford. Ford is struck by the sudden, irrational sense that he’s looking back four years into his own past, at a boy who was already too smart to accept hollow reassurances, already too experienced with disappointment to believe empty promises.

“It’s going to be all right,” Ford repeats, into the teeth of that serious look. “Somehow.”

Dipper nods, and a little of his seriousness melts away as he says, “You know, if you need any help with anything, I’ve been working on figuring out that momentum thing we talked about, and I’m not too busy...”

“Do you know much about constitutional law?”

It looks like it pains Dipper to shake his head no, but words are tumbling out almost before he stops. “But I’m a really fast learner!”

“No doubt you are.” Ford straightens up. “I’m sure I can find a job for a bright young man who’s so eager to help.”

Dipper beams, his smile splitting his face from ear to ear. “Really? Great! We’ll -” He coughs, thumping his chest, and when he speaks again he’s artificially dropped the pitch of his voice nearly a full octave. “We’ll leave you to your phone call. Come on, Mabel.”

“Dip, why’re you doing that weird voice? Haha, are you -”

“I said  _come on, Mabel_!”

Ford watches them disappear behind one of the many doors that line the elegant hallway before he takes the phone off the hook and punches in the number. His mother answers on the first ring, and Ford barely has time to say hello before she’s talking. “Stanford? Thank God, I’ve been calling and calling - have you seen the news?”

“What? What news?”

“That senator. The one who - His daughter’s gone. Missing. Vanished out her own bedroom.” Her voice is thick with emotion she’s clearly trying to keep under control. For Ford’s sake or her own, Ford can’t tell. “They’re saying it was - ugh, Fil, it’s just Stanford!” Her voice shifts, gains a sneering edge that isn’t like her to use outside of complaining about particularly odious customers, though she’s still speaking slightly too fast. “One of those - terrorist groups. Brotherhood of Mutants, the X-Men,  _you_  know. They’re all the same, aren’t they?”

“Ma,” Ford starts. His mother laughs, too long, too loud, too shrill.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. They’ve got half the FBI out looking for this girl, she’ll be found safe by morning.” There’s a beat, a ragged-sounding breath. She’s smoking again. Ford thought she’d tried to quit for the baby’s sake. Apparently not. “And God help any mutant in the state of Jersey if she ain’t.”

Ford can’t feel his fingers wrapped around the receiver. “Ma, I have to go.”

His mother goes on, like she hasn’t heard him. “Scary people out there. Scary world we live in.” Her voice cracks in his ear. “Be safe, baby.”

Ford nods into the phone, tries and fails twice to speak before simply hanging up.

He doesn’t wait to make sure the phone’s steady in its cradle before he takes off running.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [seiya234](seiya234.tumblr.com) for lending her beta-ing talents, and special thanks for letting me borrow her version of Ma Pines! This chapter includes one use of a racial slur and other prime examples of Filbrick Pines being a dick.

Wendy's mood is as stormy as the weather outside when they return. Stan can tell she's having a hard time not kicking everything in sight.

"How'd it go, dudes? I mean, you're not in prison, so I guess that's good, right?" Soos watches Wendy stomp across the living room and throw herself into an armchair which skids backwards several feet, before looking over at Stan. "I, uh, notice a distinct lack of small girl here." His eyes widen, and he leans over to Stan, holding up a hand to cover his mouth as he asks, "Oh, dude. Can she go invisible?"

"She's not here, Soos," Wendy says, sharply, in the general direction of the ceiling. 

"Oh! Smart thinking, dudes, keeping her someplace other than our - heh. Our secret lair. And, uh, thanks. I didn't really want to go to prison either -"

"This really isn't sinking in, is it?" Stan asks. "Soos, we didn't kidnap anybody."

"What?" Soos looks from Stan to Wendy to Stan again, a slightly baffled smile blooming and just as quickly withering on his face. "Okay, hold up, 'cause I thought you dudes -"

"She wasn't there, Soos!" Wendy snaps, pushing herself up out of the chair and onto her feet in one quick motion. "We got there, and she was already gone! They must have known what we were gonna do, they must've found out somehow, and taken her somewhere safe, and now we don't have the stupid brat and everything's just going to get even worse!"

Soos shoots Stan a look of confusion as Wendy storms out of the room, and Stan tries very hard not to waver in the face of Soos' big, liquid eyes.

“Thanks for watching out for her, dude,” Soos says, with uncomfortable sincerity, and Stan pulls his jacket closed around himself. “I woulda gone, but...” He holds his arms out, as though presenting himself for Stan to inspect. “Being adorable’s kind of a useless superpower, dawg. Plus, if I get arrested, then I lose my job, then I can’t make rent, then me and you and Wendy have no place to stay.”

“That wasn’t - wait, Wendy? Wendy lives here too? But she’s never here, she’s always -”

Soos nods sagely. “She couchsurfs a lot. I think she likes it better if she pretends it’s a bunch of big sleepovers. She’s got all her junk in my closet, though.” He frowns, glancing over at the refrigerator. “I didn’t know ladies needed so many flannel shirts. Did you know she’s got, like, seven identical ones? One for every day of the week!”

“Wh- she’s  _fourteen_. I thought she had a family she went home to, like the rest of these losers.”

“Oh, she has a family, dude. I don’t think they kicked her out or anything, but I dunno. When I asked her about it she just said her dad always said to punch anything you don’t understand.”

“Shit,” Stan mutters.

“Pretty much, dude.” Soos rubs one arm uncomfortably. “I know they’re like, all tough and everything, but they’re still -”

Stan nods agreement. “Kids. Just a buncha kids.”

“Yeah. So thanks for, like, having their backs?” Soos shrugs.

Stan shakes his head, digging in the pockets of his jacket for something to fidget with. “That’s - that’s not what this was about.”

Soos cocks an eyebrow, adopting an exaggerated thoughtful frown. “Wow, dude, never pegged you as a political idea-log-you.”

“Pretty sure that’s ‘ideologue’, Soos,” Stan says, wishing he couldn’t hear Ford’s voice in his mind’s ear correcting the pronunciation. “And you really think this is about politics? Ever consider what a guy like that would  _pay_  to make sure his kid is safe?”

Seeing Soos’ face crumble is like watching a puppy get kicked, or an exquisitely decorated cake toppling layer by layer. Stan raises his voice to try to drown out the guilt. “Not everybody’s a good person, Soos. You’re supposed to be an adult, you oughtta know that by now.”

There doesn't seem to be anything more to say after that, not with Soos standing in the middle of the living room with his eyes huge and shimmering like a damn cartoon character, looking like he'd just been told what shelters did with chronically unwanted pets.

"Sorry to let you down," Stan says, as flippantly as he can manage, like he doesn't really mean it, curling his hands into fists in his pockets as he leaves the room without meeting Soos' eyes.

...

Ford storms through the halls, face burning.

He hasn't felt this - this  _stupid_  since - since the damn science fair! The thought gives him pause, because surely this can't compare - but the more he considers it, the more apt the comparison seems. Oh, Fiddleford had been very kind about it, very understanding, but the upshot of their conversation had still been that yes, everyone already knew, they were doing everything they could, which wasn't much, and no, Ford couldn't help because he was too young and too inexperienced and probably too naive and had nothing of value to contribute, so he should probably just sit back and let the  _real_  scientists - er, the real X-Men - sort things out.

So yes. Yes, it is entirely appropriate to compare this feeling to the disaster that had ruined his life. And he'd even started to think that maybe it had only set him on a better path, one he would never have discovered on his own! What a joke. Now everything is crashing down around his ears again and, once again, there's nothing he can do or say to defend himself, to halt the tide.

He should have gone to Backupsmore instead.

The storm of swirling thoughts encircling his brain so consumes his attention that he doesn't realise, at first, that there's anything odd about the girls loitering at the end of the hallway. He's just stomped past them when he realises that neither of them has moved in the whole time he's been walking, the one facing his direction never taking her eyes off of him. Almost as though they're waiting for something.

Or watching for something.

Ford stops, turns on his heel to face the girls again. They both look back at him, the bigger girl clenching her fists, the smaller's eyes flickering as lizard-like clear lids close over her slitted pupils in a blink.

It takes Ford a moment to recognise why the room looks so familiar. "Is this Dipper and Mabel's dorm?"

The smaller girl only blinks again, never taking her eyes off of Ford. It's...frankly, it's a little unnerving. The bigger girl fidgets nervously, and her booming voice sounds like the one that had called for Dipper in the library. "Why d'you wanna know? Are you looking for 'em? Why?" She cracks her knuckles, glaring at Ford like he'd just asked her to sneak him into the Oval Office.

This is too strange. 

"I just -" Ford starts, but before even he can figure out where this sentence is going, the door opens a crack and Mabel's head pokes out around it. Her eyes settle on Ford, and she gives him a huge, beaming smile. 

"Hey, it's you! Grenda, Candy, it's all right, we know this guy. He won't tell anybody about our - uh - top-secret surprise birthday party plans for Dipper!"

"You're twins," Ford says, after a moment of deliberation. "You have the same -"

"Okay, talk to you later!" Mabel chirps, and yanks her head back into the room. The door slams behind her.

...

The police show up about an hour after Stan and Wendy get back.

And Stan is kicking himself, because okay, maybe he didn't let himself get roped into this nonsense so he could watch the kids' backs, but that's what they are, they're kids, and he shoulda known. He shoulda known none of them would be able to walk away, even if they hadn't actually done anything.

But it's too late for woulda-coulda-shouldas now. Now there's only time to hurry out the fire escape while Soos plays dumb at the front door, to climb to the roof instead of climbing down because there's cops all around the building, to bust into the maintenance stairwell and sneak down to the boiler room to wait the cops out. Wendy's a real champ when it comes to running and hiding from cops, Stan notices, calm and level-headed and smart, like she's done this a million times before.

Maybe that's why they get separated, once they finally hit the street. Wendy keeps her head at the sound of sirens, and Stan - well, Stan isn't going to go into detail, it's not exactly his finest moment, but the upshot of it is that Wendy ditches like a smart person and Stan? Stan panics.

There are more sirens behind him as he runs away, fire trucks coming to check out the burning squad car, probably. He hopes nobody's dead, but he doesn't have time to hang around and find out.

He can't go back to Soos' place, not now, not while the heat's still on. Stan has no idea where Wendy's gone to, and he wouldn't be able to catch up with her anyway. He honestly doesn't know where any of the others live, but he's pretty sure they've all got parents who'd get suspicious about a juvenile delinquent they've never met before suddenly turning up on their doorstep asking for their kid. And he had to run out without any of his stuff, so he hasn't got money for a motel or anything. There's nowhere he can go.

Even as the thought passes through his head, though, a sick feeling welling up under his lungs, he knows it's not quite true.

The kitchen light flicks on as Stan is easing the back door closed behind him, and he freezes, caught like a deer in headlights. Thankfully, it's his mother standing in the door to the kitchen, the red-painted talons of one hand on the lightswitch, the other hand clutching her faded, worn pink robe close over her chest. The remains of last night's eyeliner ring her eyes, which look half-glazed with sleep - or with gin, knowing Stan's ma - and sink into the crow's-feet and fine lines around her eyes, making her look older than Stan remembers. Those eyes snap into instant alertness when they land on Stan, though, all hint of haze vanishing as they widen in surprise and...Stan hopes that's not fear.

"Please don't scream," he begs, before she can open her mouth. Stan's ma takes a deep breath, lets go of the lightswitch and takes a step into the kitchen like someone stepping off of a diving board.

"Stanley," she says, like she doesn't quite believe the evidence of her eyes. Stan nods. "You shouldn't be here -"

"I know, ma, I just - I know I can't stay here, but I don't got anywhere else to go and -" Stan cuts himself off. Making a scene isn't going to help. His mother still has herself and the baby  ~~and Ford~~  to think of, she's not gonna stick her neck out for him when his pa's made it clear Stan's not wanted. That's just the way it is. Crying about it's only gonna make him look and feel pathetic. "I left a sockful of cash under my mattress upstairs, Pa don't know it's there, if I could just grab it -"

His ma is already shaking her head before the sentence is all the way out of his mouth. "Baby, we sold the bunk beds as soon as Ford moved out. I dunno if your father found your money, but either way it's gone now."

Stan tries not to focus on the vanished cash. That door's slammed in his face, all right, time to find a window. "Wait, Ford moved out? Thought he didn't get into that school he was always beaking about." Because of Stan, but Stan swallows the thought, doesn't even give it space in his own head. It was a damn accident. What kind of school would turn down a genius like Ford because of a damn accident?

"No, he didn't, but there was another scholarship offer that came through after - after you left," Stan's ma says, and it almost sounds like she's apologising for something. Which is ridiculous, she doesn’t have anything to apologise for.  _She_  didn’t kick him out on the street for something that wasn’t even his fault.

Stan takes a deep breath, a new idea brewing in the back of his mind. “That’s okay. Where’d he end up, then? Far from here? He got his own place now?”

“Stanley,” his ma says, warningly, and Stan bites down on his tongue, hoping he hasn’t pushed it too far.

“Look, Ma, if he don’t wanna see me just say so.”

Stan’s ma blows out a huff of breath and runs a hand through her flattened hair, turned into a bird’s-nest of hairspray and backcombing. Stan wonders when she last had a shower. “It’s not that, baby, it’s just...”

She looks at Stan, with that weird distant expression that Stan always used to tell himself was just the gin even though he’d never quite been able to convince himself. “Well, and why not? You two’re identical, after all.”

“What’re you talking about?” Stan asks, warily, pressing back against the back door as his mother takes a drifting step forward. “Ma, Ford’s got two extra fingers, if we were identical I would too -”

“You did, baby. You wouldn’t remember. Way you came out - the both of you had these little extra pinkies. Doctors said they could take yours easy, just tied ‘em off with a little bit of string like the umbilical and they fell right off after a day or two. Your brother just had better-connected bones, and your pa was too cheap to pay for surgery.” 

Stan is aware that he’s standing with his mouth hanging open like a fish, but he can’t seem to close it.  _Why didn’t you ever tell me_  rattles around his brain, chasing a mental image of Ford’s six-fingered hands raised, fire blooming from the tips of each finger. “What - what’s that gotta do with anything, anyway?” he asks, instead, hoping Ford got out before he’d found out, before Pa had found out -

Stan’s ma gathers her robe closer around herself, glancing fearfully back over her shoulder before turning back to Stan. “Your brother - he got an offer to go to - you know, that school, the one for -”

“Sheila? Why’s this light on?” Filbrick Pines’ voice isn’t raised, doesn’t have to be. It carries throughout the house, commanding attention even before he steps into sight around the kitchen door. “You planning on paying our electricity bills?” 

He stops at the sight of Stan, and though Stan can’t see his eyes past the dark glasses that are a constant fixture on Filbrick’s face, he knows those eyes have just narrowed.

“Thought I told you to take your shit and get outta here,” Stan’s pa says, levelly.

“Fil -” Stan’s ma starts, and Filbrick pushes her aside, walking forward to put himself face to face with Stan. Stan feels the old cowering fear clench around his spine, but he forces himself to stand straight, set his jaw, meet the eyes of his own reflection in his father’s glasses. 

“I’m visiting my ma. Ain’t no law against it.”

“There’s a law against trespassing, boy,” Filbrick says camly, and Stan’s hands ball into fists. “Get outta my home before I call the cops.”

He folds his arms across his chest. Stan squeezes his fists until his fingernails bite into his palms.

“I’m goin’,” Stan says, trying hard to keep his voice even and steady, not to let his anger leak out, not to show that his father’s words have had any effect on him. He’s a grown man, he’s been on his own for - sheesh, it’s been half a year now. He’s not going to let his temper get the best of him and let his father win, not this time. “But not ‘cause of you. I’m done talkin’ to my ma.”

His pa doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Stan nods, like this is how he planned for things to go all along. He turns and reaches for the doorknob, his hand closing around the metal ball, and pauses for a moment, taking a steadying breath.

“Like I told you the first time you left,” Filbrick’s voice says, behind him, as calm and even and reasonable as ever. “I don’t want to see you darken this doorstep again unless you’ve got my million dollars with you.”

The doorknob grows warm under Stan’s hand.

“The first time I  _left_?” he repeats, slowly turning to face his father. Filbrick hasn’t moved, his face hasn’t shifted. There’s no passion in his expression, just a calm, steady disapproval. “What, didja forget the part where you chucked me out on the street?”

“Stanley,” his mother says, like she’s trying to be heard and not be heard at the same time. 

“No, Sheila, let the boy get it out of his system,” Filbrick says.

“Get it out of my - you  _threw me out_  of my  _own house_!”

“In case you’ve forgotten, it’s  _my_  house. I worked for it, I paid for it, and I'm not using it to shelter good-for-nothing freeloaders who can't pull their own weight."

Stan lets go of the doorknob to squeeze both hands into fists, biting back the words he wants to throw in his father's face. It doesn't matter what he says, he knows from long experience - he's pissed off, he's yelling, he's losing his cool while his pa just stares calmly. Stan doesn't know how, but somehow every time he gets in a fight with his pa he ends up in this exact same situation. Every time, he's the one to fly off the handle. And when he does, he's already lost.

The first sign of emotion flickers across Filbrick's face, a raised eyebrow, supercilious and ever so slightly surprised. Stan shuts his eyes, hoping furiously against the growing dread in the pit of his stomach and the gentle warmth lapping up his arms that he hasn't - but then again, reality's never been that kind to him.

"So." Filbrick shifts his crossed arms, but otherwise doesn't react. "Guess it's true what they say about bad blood. Put that out before you melt the countertop."

Stan takes another deep breath, gulping down air like it's the last breath he'll take, and manages somehow to put a damper on the flames licking at his sleeves.

" 'Bad blood'," he says.

"Will out," Filbrick finishes. "Shoulda known. You and that brother of yours, peas in a pod." 

"Fil -" Stan's ma starts, and Stan's pa turns his dark glasses in her direction.

"The boy's got six fingers to a hand, Sheila. Say what you want to make him feel better, that ain't normal."

Stan takes another breath. His pa doesn't know. His pa isn't going to know. Ford's still safe, for now. Across the kitchen, he can practically see the same thought running through his mother's mind. 

"Leave the boy alone, Fil," Stan's ma says. "Just let him go, nobody wants any trouble."

"Figures you'd stick up for your freak sons," Stan's pa sniffs, turning to face Stan's ma. Stan doesn't miss the quick, sharp gesture she makes in his direction, telling him without words to take his opportunity and leave. He can't bring himself to move, though, his feet rooted to the floor. 

"Well, somebody's gotta, since apparently their father won't!"

"Like we don't both know what this is about." Filbrick rumbles. "They didn't get it from my side of the family, did they, Sheila? What're your people, anyway? Nothing but gypsy trash."

Stan's ma is gesturing furiously now, but Stan's frozen in place. For all that they've sniped and bickered throughout his childhood, he's never really seen his parents fight. He can already tell this is going to get ugly, and even though he knows he can't afford to have his father call the cops on him now, especially can't afford to have his father call the cops and tell them there's a pyrokinetic mutant trespassing on his property - still. That's his  _ma_. Stan can't just walk away and leave her like this -

"Stanley," Stan's ma chooses this moment to say, and there's something in her voice that makes Stan sure her timing wasn't coincidence, "get lost, the grown-ups are talking."

"Do what your mother says, boy. Show some respect for once in your life,” Filbrick says, with a glance in Stan's direction, like Stan's barely worth the effort of acknowledgment. “And don't come skulking back around here."

Stan’s ma meets his eyes, and gives him the tiniest of nods, so small Stan’s not sure at first that she’s even moved. 

It takes an enormous effort, but somehow Stan manages to pick up his feet, to reach out and twist the doorknob, to tear his eyes away from the look of fury his mother’s aiming at his father. As he shuts the door behind him, he hears his mother’s voice, in the strange, half-dreamy tone she uses sometimes when a warning slips out of her mouth during a reading instead of the usual pap about tall dark strangers and future windfalls, “Filbrick Pines, you are going to die alone.”

Stan slips down the back stairs, putting the key back up under the eaves, and starts down the alley. The sky is starting to turn grey in the east, and he’s got a school to find.

...

Dawn finds Ford planted on the couch in front of the TV in the common room, half-hypnotised by the flickering blue light washing over him, reflecting off his glasses. It looks as cold as he feels, despite the blanket he’s wrapped around his legs.

The early-early-morning-show newsanchor has been ranting for several minutes before Ford realises he’s barely heard a word of it. “- don’t offer your ‘full cooperation’ unless you’ve got something to bring to the table! I don’t buy this Xavier character’s overtures towards diplomacy, never have. And all I have to say to Charles Xavier is this: if you know something about where this innocent little girl has been taken, if you have even the barest shred of human decency, for the love of God tell the police everything you know. Otherwise? Keep your big mouth shut.”

“Have you actually slept at all?” a voice says, behind the couch. Ford half-turns, sees Dipper leaning both elbows on the back of the couch and giving him a worried look.

“You shouldn’t be watching this,” Ford says automatically, reaching for the remote but finding himself hopelessly tangled in the blanket.

Dipper shrugs. “Our mom’s out as a mutant, I’ve definitely heard worse. Have you had any luck with your research?”

Ford pulls the blanket a little closer around himself. 

Dipper sighs, slumping forward over the back of the couch. “This is such a mess.”

Ford considers the merits and drawbacks of agreeing, finally gives a circumspect nod. By Dipper’s own admission, he knows more about the nasty face of the world than most children his age should have to. And suddenly, Ford feels a sense of kinship he hasn’t felt  ~~since Stan~~  ever, that he can remember. 

“It is indeed,” he says, softly. 

The newsanchor’s voice spills into the violet stillness, calm professional amusement effortlessly flooding in to colour his tones as he talks about a waterskiing convention. Ford isn’t listening and he’s sure Dipper isn’t either. There’s a distant look on Dipper’s face, like he’s seeing something far in the distance behind the TV screen.

“What would you do,” he starts, and Ford watches the expression on his face shift, worry shading his eyes and the curve of his mouth, “if you -”

Whatever Dipper had been about to ask dies in his throat, though, at the sound of bare feet pattering against the hardwood flooring of the hall outside, someone rounding the corner into the common room. “Is there anything on the news?” the dark-haired girl Ford vaguely recognises, Darla or Carla, whatever she’s called, asks, perching on the arm of the couch beside Ford. She’s only wearing pyjamas, a thin t-shirt and shorts, and Ford tries not to look in her direction. 

“They just finished an update. There’s no news. The professor’s trying to do damage control, but it doesn’t sound like it’s working.” Dipper’s sitting on the couch beside Ford now. Ford didn’t even see him move.

Darla-Carla-Starla’s nose scrunches up in a frown. “Gotta say, I admire the guy, but I sure as hell don’t envy him.” She leans an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in her hand. “Can you imagine being a public face for mutant rights right now?”

For reasons he doesn’t fully understand and doesn’t want to examine too closely, Fiddleford’s easy smile flashes across the surface of Ford’s thoughts, accompanied by a painful clench in the pit of his stomach.

He pushes himself up off the couch, intending to rise to his feet in one smooth movement, but the blanket tangles around his feet and he nearly faceplants directly into the TV set. Ford manages to catch himself, though only barely, and straightens up, balling the blanket up and tossing it back onto the couch. Dipper, he notices, has already vanished, and Darla-Carla -  _oh_  she is  _definitely_  not wearing a bra. Ford looks hurriedly away, grabs the remote and holds it out to her while doing his best not to so much as glance in her direction. Honestly, he understands the rationale behind co-ed dormitories in a facility of this size, but  _really_. 

Starla-Carla-Darla takes the remote, and Ford can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “Thanks,” she says, crossing her legs in front of her. “Sure you don’t wanna stick around and see what happens next?”

“There is nothing I can imagine that would be more torturous right now,” Ford says, honestly, and Darla-Starla-Carla actually does laugh, though now it sounds surprised and a little pleased.

“Point,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see if there’s anything good on MTV instead.”

Ford nods, gathering himself up and heading for the door.

The school is just starting to wake up, people drifting out of dorm rooms headed in search of news or breakfast or both. Ford wonders if anyone’s going to bother even trying to hold classes today - he knows they could all probably use the distraction, but it seems highly unlikely that anyone will be able to pay attention, much less absorb any new information.

His route to the library carries him past Dipper and Mabel’s room, and Ford pauses at the sound of raised voices. He tries to tell himself he’s being ridiculous, he barely knows the children, but - well, with Fiddleford accompanying the professor on his apparently doomed mission of diplomacy, they are the two people Ford has had the most contact with in the entire school. And, for all that he’s found his hands largely tied, it feels like he’s doing something important just to reassure them.

So he stops. Just to make sure they’re all right.

Grenda and Candy aren’t standing guard this morning, so Ford walks right up to the door, raising a hand to knock. He pauses, though, as his brain catches up to his ears.

“Dipper, you can’t! She came to us for help!”

“And she’s an ungrateful, arrogant, self-important jerk who thinks she’s better than all of us! Seriously, Mabel, do you really think that she’d be helping us if things were the other way around?”

“Noooo...” Mabel’s voice sounds uncertain, and Ford can picture her twisting her hair in both hands. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t!”

“Mabel, so long as she’s here all of us are in danger!” Dipper’s voice rises, and then drops back down. “I don’t - I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Ford lowers the hand he’d held up to knock, reaching for the doorknob instead. The knob turns easily under his hand and the door swings open, both Dipper and Mabel spinning to face it as it opens. There’s a suggestion of blur around where Dipper’s standing, and a flutter in the corner of Ford’s eye makes him look up to see a blanket gently settling over a lump about the size and shape of a child on the bed nearest the window.

“What,” he starts, and finds himself with no idea how to finish.

“We can explain!” Mabel blurts.

Dipper shakes his head, glancing back over his shoulder at the bed by the window and the lump on it. “Actually, if anybody’s doing any explaining, it should be  _her_.”

Ford follows his gaze to where the person under the blanket is starting to stir. He barely notices the door swinging shut behind him, more focused on the head of blonde hair emerging from under the blanket, the blue eyes that fix on his, first in fright, then in a determined glare.

“I’m  _not_  going back,” Pacifica Northwest says.


	4. Chapter 4

Stan doesn't actually know the last names of most of Wendy's friends - and he isn't really sure if 'Thompson' was a first or last name - but the name 'Valentino' tends to stick in the brain. And, thankfully, there aren't a whole lot of them in the phone book.

There’s only one entry for ‘Valentino’, actually, and it’s a funeral home. Still, Stan copies down the address as the roof of the phone booth drips outside, the greyish light growing stronger but still slightly too dim to see by. Stan has to be very careful not to bring his flame too close to the page.

He still wouldn’t dream of turning up on the Valentinos’ doorstep and asking for a place to stay and lay low for a while - his earlier reasons still stand, plus the fact that it’s _Robbie_ \- but dropping by to ask a friend a question seems a little more reasonable. And he can’t think of anyone more likely to know about some kind of school for mutants than Robbie. Uh. Nighthawk.

Stan waits in the phone booth through a brief burst of fine grey drizzle, the last spiteful dregs of the storm that had rolled through overnight, and only ditches once the clouds overhead start to look like they’re going ragged in the encroaching dawn. Stan wishes, not for the first time tonight, that he’d been able to take his car when they’d left Soos’. The Valentinos’ place isn’t far, but it’s gonna be a cold, wet, miserable walk.

The walk delivers on all of Stan’s expectations. The drizzle starts up again as he’s crossing Main, and keeps starting and stopping as he goes, like a leaky faucet dribbling down the back of his neck. He’s not drenched, just damp and grumpy, by the time he reaches the funeral home.

There’s a big sign on the lawn, granite like a tombstone, with some tasteful enamel vines carved into it framing the name of the funeral home. Stan ignores the fancy metal knocker on the front door, banging a fist against the somber dark blue paint instead. He's barely pulled his knuckles back before the door swings open, a woman’s cheerful face appearing where there’d been wood a moment before. Stan takes a step back almost automatically, and the woman beams at him.

“Well, _hi_ there! Are you here to visit a family member or loved one?”

“Uh, no,” Stan says, glancing over at the granite sign on the lawn. Yup, definitely a funeral home. “I’m here to see, uh, Robbie?”

The woman twinkles at him, pulling the door wide. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on in!” She takes a step back, giving Stan a clear view of a surprisingly normal-looking house, and turns to call up the stairs behind her. “Robbie? Sweetie? There’s a friend here to see you!”

“I didn’t say we were, uh,” Stan starts, but he’s cut off by a muffled yell coming from the top of the stairs. 

“Ugh, _Mom_ , I told you a million times, it’s _Nighthawk_!”

“Oh, sorry! Nighthawk, sweetie -”

“I heard you the first time!”

The woman turns back to Stan, her smile turning apologetic. “Why don’t you come on inside and have some cookies?”

Stan’s on his second snickerdoodle when Robbie comes slouching down the stairs, hands thrust sullenly into the pockets of his hoodie, dropping one foot onto each stair like he hopes it’ll give way underneath him. He drops off the bottom stair with an aggrieved sigh, looks up through his overlong, greasy bangs at Stan, and scowls.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Nighthawk,” Robbie’s mother says - not exactly sternly, she still sounds almost aggressively chirpy, but there’s a hint of gentle reproach in her sunny voice. “Come have a snickerdoodle and be nice to your guest.”

Robbie glowers at Stan, darts a longing look at the snickerdoodles, glowers at Stan again.

“You should have one,” Stan says, snagging a third cookie from the tin Robbie’s mom holds out. “They’re really awesome - are these homemade, Mrs. V?”

“Why, thank you for noticing, young man!”

Robbie groans and grabs a snickerdoodle. “This is my hell.” He turns the glower back onto Stan, though it gets a lot less intimidating when he takes a big bite out of the cookie and starts to munch on it. “Why are you here anyway? What do you want?”

“Wow, some way to treat a friend,” Stan says, feigning hurt. He laughs, hard, at the expression on Robbie’s face. “Ah, don’t look so constipated, I’m just messing with ya.” He bobs his head in the direction of Robbie’s mom without breaking eye contact with Robbie. “Can we talk?”

Robbie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “We’ll be up in my room, _Mom_.”

“All right, sweetie!” Robbie’s mom waves as Robbie leads Stan up the stairs. “Don’t turn that music of yours up too loud, you’ll damage your hearing!”

Robbie doesn’t respond, just waits for Stan to follow him into the cave that is his room and slams the door behind him.

“That’s your mom?” Stan asks, as he looks around at the black-painted walls, the drawings and posters plastered over them. “What’s your dad, Sauron?”

“No, he’s just like - wait, what? What’s a Sauron? I - I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Nevermind, not important,” Stan quickly brushes the question aside. “Do you know anything about a school for mutants?”

“What, like Xavier’s? Pssh, why do you wanna know about _them_?” Robbie jabs a finger into Stan’s chest. “You’re not planning on going all Benedict Arnold on us, are you?”

“Would you put a sock in it for five seconds? Not everything’s about your little political drama.” Stan considers sitting on the bed, looks at the sheets, reconsiders. “It’s a family thing, okay? So just keep your judgy face to yourself.”

“A family thing? I thought you didn’t have -”

“So. Xavier’s, huh? Where’s that?”

Robbie crosses his arms over his chest. “Where’s Wendy?”

“What?”

“Wendy! We left her and you with Soos, where is she?”

Stan shrugs one shoulder. “How should I know? Cops raided the place, she ditched. Think she got away clean, we both got out of the building and I...made a distraction.” He clears his throat into a fist. “She’ll be fine, she’s too smart to go back there. Can we get back on topic now?”

“Yeah, I don’t _think_ so,” Robbie sneers, leaning back against the wall. “You know, something really stinks about all this. We pick you up, you make fun of our ideology and political efforts, you steer Wendy towards that stupid, pointless protest bullshit -"

"Hey, that was all her, kid. I just picked her up when you ditched her."

Robbie ignores Stan, ticking off points on his fingers. "This kidnapping you didn’t like gets botched, like somebody knew we were gonna be coming. Then cops turn up at Soos’ not even a full day later. And now you turn up here without Wendy or Soos, saying you’ve got family at Xavier’s?”

“Okay, when you put it like that, it does look bad,” Stan admits. “But - look, how stupid would I have to be to come asking after Xavier’s if I was really working with them? And why wouldn’t I know where to find them?” He spreads his arms wide, and Robbie’s piercing stare falters, just a little.

“I - how should _I_ know? You’re the two-faced traitor, not me!” Robbie jabs a chipped black fingernail in Stan’s direction. “Maybe - maybe you’re FBI! CIA! Working to bring us all down from the inside!”

“Man, I wish, they’d probably pay better than treasure hunting and taffy scraping,” Stan grumbles. “Look, if you’re so convinced I’m the enemy or whatever, then fine. I’m outta here.”

He turns and opens the door, shuffles down the stairs. “Thanks for the snickerdoodles,” he says, as he passes by Robbie’s mom, and only pauses when Robbie’s voice calls from the top of the stairs.

“Hey, wait!”

Stan turns around, thinking there’s no way the little twerp has already changed his mind - and Robbie slams into him at the waist, flinging him backwards into the door. Stan’s head bounces off the wood and for a moment he sees stars, the floor spinning out from under him. He doesn't get much of a chance to regroup before Robbie's knuckles collide with his jaw. There isn't nearly as much force in the blow as there was when he tackled Stan, which isn't surprising considering he hasn't just flown down the stairs to punch Stan in the face, but it's still enough to keep Stan's head ringing for a few seconds longer. He can hear Robbie's mom gasping, "Robbie!" beside him, but he can't fix his gaze on her - the image keeps splintering and wobbling.

Robbie stumbles back, shaking his hand and whimpering 'ow', and Stan can't help a savage grin.

"First lesson, pal," he says, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring the way his vision wavers. He's definitely dealt with worse; this scrawny nerd's got nothing on Crampelter, even if he does have superpowers. "Jaw's solid bone. Don't aim for the jaw."

Robbie doubles over like a house of cards when Stan's left fist slams into his stomach.

"Sorry, Mrs. V.," Stan says, lightly, to Robbie's mom, as he opens the door. He's starting to get his balance back, and this time he can actually sort of focus on her expression of pure shock. "Thanks again for the snickerdoodles!"

He's halfway out the door when Robbie ploughs into the small of his back, throwing him face-first out into the lawn.

...

“ _What_ ,” Ford repeats, more insistently this time. He waves a hand towards Pacifica, who scowls up at him from the bed by the window.

Pacifica rolls her eyes, like Ford is some kind of complete dunce who she’s deigning to explain a very simple concept like the theory of relativity to in detail. “Do you really think I’d be here if I had literally any other choice?”

“As you keep reminding us, no, you wouldn’t,” Dipper mutters, and Pacifica shoots him a glare.

Ford finally manages to sort out his thoughts, but before he can ask the question that springs to the forefront of his mind, Pacifica’s already answering it. “ _Yes_ , I’m a mutant. Duh. And obviously if you know anything about my father or politics or anything at all, you know he can’t - he can’t have a mutant for a daughter.” 

She sits up, straightening her shoulders and raising her head, as though she’s defying Ford to mention the way her voice had broken halfway through her last sentence. “So I’m not going back. And you and your ugly sweatervest can’t make me.”

“Ugh, Pacifica,” Mabel sighs, pressing a hand to her forehead. 

“What? It’s an argyle monstrosity. Where did you get that thing, anyway? Your grandpa’s closet?”

Ford raises a hand to adjust his glasses, lowers it without touching the frames, waving his hand vaguely as he tries to find his bearings. “You want to hide _here_  so that your father can push this -”

Pacifica rolls her eyes again. “No, I want to hide here so my father can’t push _me_  into some kind of ‘treatment facility’ like he’s planning to, or make me disappear if that doesn’t work.” Her stare is challenging, fixed on Ford’s face. 

Ford can’t think of anything else to say. He’s aware that there are arguments to be made about how her vanishing like this has put an entire community of vulnerable people at greater risk, about the greater good, about how none of them will be able to protect Pacifica if something isn’t done - but he can’t seem to formulate any of them into words, and knowing that Pacifica will pluck every argument straight out of his head and refute it while he’s still trying to make it make sense to himself is discouraging beyond belief.

He wonders, briefly, if this is anything similar to how her father gets people to go along with his skewed logic, and Pacifica’s glower intensifies.

“I don’t know, did _your_  father convince you that you could pull off that baby mullet?”

“Pacifica, please stop picking fights with people over things they haven’t said yet,” Dipper says, with an edge of barely-concealed frustration that makes Ford think this is a conversation they’ve had once or twice before.

“Ugh!” Pacifica says, flopping back against the bed. “If I could do that, then they wouldn’t be sending me away to fix me, would they?”

Ford could swear he can hear everyone breathing in the silence.

"No, they wouldn't," Dipper says, finally. "You'd be back in your mansion with your collection of ponies or whatever, pretending to be like them and probably feeding your dad really personal secrets you stole from his opponents' minds so he can use them against them."

"I thought your whole thing was not discriminating against people for things they can't control."  Pacifica crosses her arms over her chest. Her glare, Ford thinks, could probably drill holes in solid diamond. "I didn't ask to be Preston Northwest's kid! And I definitely didn't ask to be a mutant!"

"Yeah? Well, neither did any of us." Dipper jabs a pointed finger in Pacifica's direction, into the teeth of her expression of affronted shock. "Face it, Pacifica, you're nothing more than another link in the world's worst chain."

Before Ford can even really process the words, the door slams behind Dipper. 

"Ugh, Dipper," Mabel groans, doing a faceplant onto the bed Pacifica's not currently occupying. She lifts her head, parting her hair just enough to meet Pacifica's eyes before she says, apologetically, "He didn't mean it -"

"Oh, he meant it," Pacifica says, shortly, to the ceiling.

She doesn't say anything further, just rolling over onto her side with her back to Mabel and Ford and pulling the blanket back up over her head.

Mabel pushes herself up with a sigh, fixing Ford with a wide-eyed gaze. "You won't tell anybody, will you?"

"I -" Ford isn't quite sure how to respond. It seems like a whole lot of new information has been packed into the last few minutes, and he needs a little time to adjust, to digest, to mull it all through. "Not right now," he says, at last. "But, Mabel, you know you can't keep her here."

"I know! We just...we need some time to figure out what to do." Mabel's lower lip has started to wobble, and Ford wonders if she's somehow harnessed the power of superhuman cuteness. "Please."

"It may not matter whether I tell anyone or not. Your brother -"

"He won't," Mabel says, with a certainty that Ford wishes he could feel ~~especially about his own sibling~~. "I asked him not to, we could both get in big trouble - he won't."

"Fine. But in case you'd forgotten, Pacifica is hardly the only telepath here. You won't be able to hide her forever."

Mabel is quiet in response, and Ford feels for her, and for Pacifica, he really does. But he can't stop thinking about the accusations hurled by the anchorman on the early news, the terror in his mother's voice, Mabel and Dipper both throwing their arms around him, a teenager they barely knew, looking for comfort when their real family felt impossibly far away...

He tries to contemplate what it would be like to end up in a place designed to systematically strip him of his abilities and his confidence in them and himself, but it's too abstract, this manipulation of energy still too new to be a solid part of his identity, it doesn't click. Then he tries to think of someone cutting off both his sixth fingers, but though his reaction is immediate and visceral, he can't help but think of how many children are going to be subjected to the same treatment as Pacifica fears if things keep going the way they are. How many children so much younger than even her, young and frightened and helpless and unable to understand...

"I've never...really...spent any time around mutants before," Pacifica's voice emanates from under the blanket, muffled by thick fleece. "Do all of you think about so much totally depressing stuff all the time, or are you three just in serious need of therapy?"

The insult sounds muffled, but not just by the blanket. It doesn't have the same bite as her earlier jabs at Ford's sweatervest.

"Hey, I'm always fun and delightful!" Mabel complains, and Pacifica snorts with what almost sounds like laughter.

"Okay, just keep telling yourself that," she says, tossing her hair as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. There are the beginnings of a smile on her face, though.

She looks like she might be about to say something more, but she's interrupted by the rising sound of a cacophony from somewhere outside. Pacifica drops flat on the bed like a felled tree, yanking the blanket up over her head. Mabel darts to the window, pulling aside the curtains and pressing her face and both hands flat against the glass. 

“Uh oh,” she says, in a voice that even Ford, who has barely known her for two weeks, knows is too quiet for Mabel. Over her words, he can hear the noise outside resolve itself into the _whupwhupwhupwhupwhup_  of helicopter blades. “Uh oh” is an understatement.

And yet, Ford can’t help but feel - not relieved, exactly. But like he’s finally able to exhale. 

He knows what Stanley would say. The thought slips past before he can stop it, and for once, Ford doesn’t try to shove it aside. Instead, he welcomes the mental image, tries to put himself into it, to borrow a little confidence and even excitement from it.

Because he knows that, if Stan were here right now, he would be grinning ear to ear and smacking a fist into the palm of his other hand, proudly declaring, “Finally, something I can punch!”

...

Stan spits out a mouthful of grass.

His cheeks are burning, probably scraped raw from the slide across the lawn, and his nose is icy with pain. Despite himself, he's grudgingly impressed. Who knew a fucking hundred-pound bird-boned bird-brained jerk like Robbie could lay him out like this? The kid might not have a clue when it came to girls, but he'd sure figured out how to weaponize his pretty lame power.

Robbie presses a knee into the small of Stan's back, hands on his shoulders pushing him down into the lawn. "Quit squirming! I'm not letting you go to sell out my friends!"

"Yeah? Whatcha gonna do, then, kill me?" Stan asks as best he can around a mouthful of sod. 

Robbie stops moving.

"I - If I gotta!" he says, sharply, and even though it stretches his cheeks painfully, Stan can't help but grin. 

"Sure, sure. You, the guy who didn't know punching somebody right in the jaw would hurt your knuckles."

"Shut up!" Robbie hisses through clenched teeth.

"You, the momma's boy who gets home-baked cookies and all your laundry done for you. You, who've never been in a real fight in your life because you let your girlfriend fight all your battles for you -"

Stan's cut off when Robbie presses a hand to the back of his head, grinds his face into the grass. "Shut up," Robbie growls again, and Stan wants to laugh. "You don't know anything about me, you - you -"

"I know you ain't got the guts to kill anything," Stan manages, twisting his head to the side so he can speak. "And that's what you're gonna have to do if you wanna keep me from walking out of here."

Robbie is silent for a long moment. Then, he says, "Fine."

It doesn't sound like his usual whining. It sounds cold, and sharp, and determined, and suddenly Stan is really uncertain about being pinned under even Robbie's practically nonexistent weight.

Stan concentrates, and flames erupt along his shoulders. Robbie yelps, pulling his hands away, and Stan rolls, throwing him off his back. They're both up again in seconds, Robbie crouched with one hand on the ground, Stan on his toes ready to punch with flames crackling up and down his arms. 

Robbie moves, Stan swings - only for his fist to sweep wildly through thin air. A moment later, a foot in his ass nearly makes him do another faceplant. Stan spins, swinging, but Robbie's already gone, tearing through the air like a dolphin through water. Stan wishes he'd kept the fight inside, in an enclosed space. He wishes Robbie would just come down and fight him, man-to-man. Better yet, he wishes Robbie would just leave him alone. Why'd he even have to pick this stupid fight in the first place, anyway?

"Give it up, kid," Stan calls, coaxing the flames up to surround his entire torso, like a shield to keep Robbie from landing a blow. "You're not gonna win this -"

That's when Robbie does an enormous midair loop-de-loop and tackles the backs of Stan's legs, making Stan's knees buckle and knocking him to the ground. Again.

Stan rolls, trying to get room to get a few good punches in on Robbie - one solid hit and this'll all be over, no problem, but the kid just won't stay _put_. And despite himself, Stan really doesn't wanna burn the kid's face off. Even though lighting that hoodie on fire would probably be a public service.

They grapple in the grass for a few short, tense moments, Robbie clinging grimly to Stan's legs while Stan tries to push him off, before Stan finally manages to pin Robbie against the lawn. Robbie finally goes still, breathing hard and glaring pure hate up at Stan, who resists the urge to spit in his eye.

"Look, you're obviously outmatched here," Stan says, instead. "Just stay down this time, okay?"

Robbie, apparently, has none of Stan's self-control. The gob of spit he aims at Stan's face doesn't have enough momentum, though, and it falls pathetically back to splat on Robbie's own cheek. He lets out a disgusted, exhausted groan and tries to tug an arm free of Stan's grip, probably to wipe it off. Stan, not taking any chances, doesn't let him go.

"You don't get it, do you?" Robbie snarls, though the snarl has fewer teeth than it had earlier. "I wouldn't expect somebody like _you_ to understand, but those are my friends. I'm not just gonna let you hurt them." He coughs, and mutters, glancing away to his left, "Even if all I can do about it is annoy you into giving up."

Stan can't help himself. He bursts out laughing.

"What?" Robbie demands, and Stan laughs harder.

"Ahhhh, you are really something else," he sighs, just managing to remember not to let go off Robbie's arms to wipe a tear away from his eye. "You really think I'm gonna believe this is all because of how much you care about your friends after the way you ditched Wendy?"

"Wh- come on, that was one time!" Robbie manages to wiggle an arm free, rubs the spit off his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie. "Like I said. You don't know _anything_ about me. You don't know anything about any of us, and all you do is cause trouble and get people hurt, and - these are my _friends_ , man! I know you don't care, but they're the only ones I've got!"

Neither of them move for a few minutes, the only sound the faint crumpling-paper rustle of the flames still licking at Stan's shoulders.

"Yeah," Stan says, at last, sitting back and letting go of Robbie. "Me too."

Robbie scrambles up to a sitting position as soon as Stan releases him, scooting backwards on hands and feet to put some distance between them before he stops and eyes Stan warily.

"Look, why don't you come with me?" Stan says, finally. "Show me where this place is, keep an eye on me so you can make sure I'm not getting into any shenanigans. If that's what you're so worried about."

Robbie's eyes narrow, but he looks like he might actually be considering it.

"Fine," he says, at last, jabbing an accusing finger at Stan. "But I'm not letting you out of my sight for one stupid second, got it?"

Stan bites back the urge to laugh again, nods instead. Robbie nods as well, like he's giving his approval.

"Cool," he says, and then, back towards the house, "Mom! We're borrowing the car!"

...

The first of the helicopters flying over the school breaks Ford from his reverie.

"Right," he says, turning away from the window. "Okay. We have to get Pacifica out of here."

"There's an escape tunnel just down the hall," Mabel says. Ford goggles.

"A...what?" 

"Escape tunnel!" Mabel chirps, and gestures to the window. "They figured we might need them."

There's a _thump_ from the roof above, and all three of the room's occupants glance apprehensively upwards.

"Well, that showed remarkable foresight," Ford says. "We should get away from the window. Mabel, can your invisibility be transferred to another person or object?"

"Uh, doi! How do you think we got Pacifica inside in the first place?" Mabel asks, reaching out a hand to the blanket-covered bundle on the bed even as she backs away from the window. Pacifica's hand reaches out to grab Mabel's, and between blinks, they've both vanished. Mabel's voice emanates from thin air, about a foot from where she had been standing. "Just follow me and - oh. Wait. I think I might have noticed a _tiiiiny_ little flaw in my otherwise foolproof plan."

"It's all right," Ford starts, moving to put himself between where he believes Mabel is standing and the window. There are thumps and scraping sounds coming from outside, now, and he feels certain they don't have time to carefully examine the merits and drawbacks of all possible options. "Just take Pacifica and get out of here, I'll be right behind -"

His sentence is cut short by the crash of glass breaking as a figure in black swings down on a length of what looks like bungee cord and smashes through the window.

For once, Ford doesn't think, just reacts. He spins to face the window, throwing up both hands in front of his face, protectively, palms out.

The jet of solid ice that envelops the intruder, pins him against the wall in a cocoon of ice, and fills the broken window with a frozen wave of jagged spikes, appears almost without thought. Ford staggers back, away from the shimmering sculpture and its prisoner, a wave of exhaustion threatening to sweep over him. This isn't the first time he's used this ability of his on such a scale, but without any preparation it's surprisingly draining, for all that it's equally exhilarating.

"Mabel?" he asks the room at large, and is greeted with silence. 

The door is hanging open, and Ford pulls it carefully aside, scanning the length of the hallway. More smashing sounds, mingling with shouts and screams, emanate from behind the rows of doors that line the hall, and one of them bursts open, borne on a giant cloud of sparkling pink moving at deceptive speed. Ford watches it crash into the opposite wall and explode into splinters, wondering briefly what happened to the intruder who must have invaded that room and quickly deciding he doesn't need to know. At least, not right now. Though it would be interesting to locate the student behind the pink cloud and -

Another explosion and a burst of what sounds like gunfire derails Ford's train of thought, yanking him abruptly back into the present. He hurries out of the room, skidding across the hall and catching himself against the wall when another explosion rocks the floor. As he's straightening up, pushing himself back to his feet, three figures in full black body armour burst out of the room to his left, guns raised and ready to fire.

Ford doesn’t think, just - _pushes_. There’s a sound like a staccato drumbeat, and between his blinks, all three are pinned against the far wall by a flurry of icicles. 

Ford doesn’t have time to contemplate the implications of this different manifestation of his powers, how he seems to have managed to subconsciously, almost instantaneously, interpret the situation and translate all the variables into an attack that would be equally effective to his earlier impromptu glacier without being so draining on him, though. Because that’s when a section of the wooden panelling low on the wall, closer to the end of the hall, swings wide to reveal a gaping black square.

“Mabel!” Ford calls out, and the door freezes in mid-swing. He hurries past the heavily-armed men pinned to the wall, sliding on the hardwood in his knit socks when he tries to stop. He trips over something at about waist-height, and there’s a chorus of high-pitched shouts as they all go over into a heap on the floor.

When Ford looks back, both Mabel and Pacifica are visible, Pacifica face-down on the floor with both arms spread out like someone who has given up on trying, Mabel mirroring her pose but flat on her back with both eyes on the ceiling. She sits up with a groan, pressing a hand to her head, and gasps when she sees Pacifica. Mabel reaches out to grab Pacifica’s wrist, and in seconds they’ve both vanished again.

“Mabel?” Ford starts. He doesn’t get an answer, but there’s a pressure against his own hand and suddenly he’s looking down _through_  himself at the floor.

“Well, that’s disconcerting,” he says, to no one in particular. 

“Shh! They can still _hear_  you,” Pacifica says, and Ford can almost hear her eyes rolling.

“They can still hear both of you!” Mabel snaps, startling Ford - and, by the sounds of things, Pacifica - into silence. “Okay. You guys get out of here, I’m going to find Dipper. I’m not leaving him behind in this mess.” No sooner are the words out of her mouth than another explosion sets the floor shaking, drawing a groan out of Pacifica that’s drowned in an unearthly scream from somewhere down the hall that makes Ford clap his hands over his ears.

His protests are swallowed up by the same shriek, and when Pacifica suddenly reappears sitting on the floor beside him, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to do but follow Mabel’s command. Ford holds out a hand to Pacifica, which she eyes with suspicion before crossing her arms over her chest.

“Fine,” she mutters. “ _I guess_  I’ll go with you. But only because it’s marginally better than the alternative.”

“You know, my friend Fiddleford says it’s really the gratitude of the people they save that makes being an X-Man worth it,” Ford says, watching up and down the hall as Pacifica climbs into the escape tunnel. “I’ve been wondering if he was being ironic ever since.”

Two more doors burst open, and Ford recognises Mabel’s friends Candy and Grenda as they tumble out, looking back over their shoulders as they start running full-tilt down the hall towards Ford. He stands, flicks his wrist and fires a barrage of icicles over their heads at the soldiers who come running after the girls. He doesn’t wait to see whether any of his projectiles have found purchase in their intended targets, turns his attention back to Candy and Grenda just in time to hear Grenda yell, “Other Pines guy, look out!”

Ford whirls, ready to defend his exposed back - but the two soldiers who’ve just burst out of another door both go still, their faces going slack, and lower the guns they’d raised. As he watches, disbelieving, the one on the right kicks up his heels in a complicated jig, moving to music Ford can’t hear, while the other starts cradling his gun like it’s a baby doll and crooning a soft lullaby.

Ford looks back at the girls, to see both Grenda and Candy staring in what looks like a mix of surprise and grudging admiration at Pacifica, whose eyes are shut tight, an expression of obvious strain on her face. She cracks an eye in Ford’s direction, scowling, and snaps, “ _Yes_ , it’s me, _duh_. But I’m not going to be able to keep this up for much -”

“They’re coming to!” Grenda yells, in her surprising bass, and Ford glances over to see that the soldiers are, indeed, blinking like men who have just woken from a deep and peaceful sleep. 

“Everyone inside,” Ford says, shuffling Candy, Pacifica, and Grenda all into the escape hatch as he stands guard over the entrance, watching the hypnotised guards carefully. He glances along the length of the hall one last time, but it’s eerily quiet and still. Anyone else who might still be around will have to find their own way out.

He slips into the escape hatch after the girls, pulling the door shut and pressing both hands against it. Frost gathers along the corners, and by the time the gunfire starts up again outside, the ice sealing the door shut is already inches thick.

Ford turns to the girls. Three nearly-identical expressions of barely but defiantly concealed terror stare back at him, practically begging him to tell them what they need to do next.

“All right,” Ford says, gathering a confidence he doesn’t feel, and then, “Follow me.”


	5. Chapter 5

This road trip would be better with toffee peanuts, Stan decides. 

It would also be better if he had literally anyone for company other than Robbie.

Thankfully, they hadn't talked much at first, but Robbie had insisted on flipping through the radio stations until he'd found one playing the whiniest, shittiest rock music Stan's ever heard. He's pretty sure that if he has to hear the words 'broken' and 'soul' used together one more time, he's gonna rip the radio right out of the dash.

Stan's just considering whether to suggest turning off at the little town they just passed a big road sign for, grab some snacks and take a piss before they keep going, when the song Robbie'd been yelling and banging the dash along to ends and the DJ comes on instead with the news.

"Ugh, booooring," Robbie groans, and moves to spin the dial, but Stan slaps his hand away. "Hey, what gives?"

"Shut up," Stan says, listening to the DJ's voice. It's hard to hear over the obnoxious background music, but Stan can make out just enough of the words to follow along.

“- following a raid...Xavier’s School for...Direc-...-pher of the FBI stated that...evidence, but still no sign of Pacifica Northwest...”

“Dammit,” Stan mutters. Beside him, Robbie’s thankfully shut his mouth and stopped rolling his eyes, instead leaning closer to the radio like it’s some kind of magnet for skinny jerks with badly-dyed black hair. “Why don’t they give these guys microphones that actually work?”

He fixes Robbie with a glare when Robbie reaches for the dial, and Robbie scowls. “I’m gonna tune it to a news station, jeez.”

“Oh. Right.” Stan considers. “Good idea.”

He stomps down on the gas, anyway.

The radio buzzes and crackles through a few stations before Robbie finally settles on one. The announcer’s saying something about a bridge collapse, but the longer she talks the more Stan’s sure it’s nowhere near them, nothing they need to worry about. 

“Come on, give us the scoop on Northwest’s brat,” Stan mutters. A tanker truck tears past them, its horn blaring as it blows by the Valentinos’ station wagon. The news announcer switches to some story about politics in the Philippines. Stan thumps a hand on the steering wheel, and curses when a cheery jingle tootles out instead of the horn. 

“Hey, careful with that!” Robbie glares at Stan’s hand, still resting on the horn. “My dad’ll kill me if you bust anything in this van.”

The announcer’s still talking about the Philippines. Stan can only sit listening to it for so long.

“Okay, what’s he gonna do?” he blurts, at last. “Frown at you? Tell you how disappointed he is? Dock your allowance?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re hilarious,” Robbie mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching down in the passenger seat, turning to glare out the window instead of at Stan. 

“Look, I’m serious. What’s the giant fuckin’ deal? Your parents are - honestly, they’re so good I’m not sure they’re real.” 

Robbie half-shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t turn back to look at Stan. “You wouldn’t say that if you had to live with them.”

“What, do they knock you around when nobody else’s watching? Tell you what a piece of shit you are every night before bed? Make you eat your own turds?”

“What? No!” That finally gets Robbie looking back at Stan, if only to fix him with a stare of disbelief. “No, they’re not total assholes. It’s just -” He huffs out a breath, slouching even more, until his chin vanishes into the folds of his hoodie. “Nevermind. You wouldn’t understand.”

Stan bangs his hand on the steering wheel again, taking care this time to avoid the horn. “Then explain it to me, okay? Make me understand why having a roof over your head and two people who love the shit outta you cramming cookies down your throat is such an awful fuckin’ thing.”

Robbie is silent for a little while longer after that, and Stan wonders if he’s thinking about the night he and Wendy found Stan in that alleyway, if he remembers what the inside of the Stanleymobile had looked like, if he remembers how Stan had gone after the pizza like a starving man. Stan kind of really, really hopes so.

“You heard what my mom calls me,” Robbie says, at last, into his chest so that the words come out muffled and Stan’s not even sure he’s heard anything at first. “It’s always like that. Always. I tell her  _every single time_  that it’s Nighthawk and  _every single time -”_

“Oh boo fuckin’ hoo. Your mom can’t remember your stupid nickname, big deal. Shit, my dad didn’t remember our names half the time, that’s why he named us both -” Too late, Stan realises what’s coming out of his mouth and shuts it tight. Robbie’s giving him this awful, weird look, and Stan shrugs, like he can just shrug it off. 

“It’s not a nickname,” Robbie says, quietly, and Stan breathes a silent sigh of relief that he doesn’t seem to have noticed Stan’s slip-up. “And it’s not  _stupid_. It’s a mutant name and it’s a symbol of everything that I am, everything that makes me - different. And it’s not like they just  _forget_  it. I literally remind them every single time -” He bites back the rest of his sentence, giving another shrug and a toss of his head that sweeps his bangs into his eyes, forcing him to huff and puff until he blows them away again. “Oh, sure, they act like they don’t care and they just love and accept me no matter what but - they wouldn’t send me to the school. They change the subject every time I try to talk about it. They won’t use my real name. They think the whole thing’s just a big phase and -”

He stops, abruptly, and turns with a jerk to look out the window. 

When Robbie doesn’t seem to have anything more to say, Stan turns his attention back to the news report. They’re talking about an economic downturn in Cairo. If anything about the Northwest kid had hit the news, it must’ve been at the top of the hour. Stan turns the radio off.

The station wagon hums and rattles along in silence for a few minutes before Robbie says something, small but clear in the quiet. It takes Stan a moment to process, to be sure that his ears have really picked up what his brain thinks they have.

“I’m scared what they’re gonna do when they realise it’s not.”

Stan doesn’t say anything in response. Robbie doesn’t turn to look at him, so he doesn’t see Stan nod, slowly.

“What a fuckin’ world,” Stan says, finally, unable to think of anything else to say. 

R-  _Nighthawk_  nods agreement, once, spins around and reaches over to turn the radio back on.

...

The tunnel emerges in the airplane hangar under the basketball court. Grenda, Candy, and Pacifica all look around in obvious amazement, Candy sidling over to the nearest control panel on the wall nearest the door and giving it a cautious poke before throwing herself into a flurry of curious investigation. Grenda just looks around, hands on her hips, with an expression of impressed satisfaction. “I knew there was something fishy going on!” she booms, and Pacifica and Candy both shush her. She lowers her voice some, but it still causes echoes to rattle around the vast expanse of the empty hangar. “ _Nobody’s_  got basketball nets that can fold down flat.”

“Great,” Pacifica mutters. “Good going, Nancy Drew. How do we get out of here?”

Ford’s really only been down here once, with Fidds, and the only way back out he knows of is up through the school. Obviously that’s not going to work. They have to find another way out.

He scans the huge, empty hangar. The jet is gone, with the Professor and the X-Men to Washington or wherever they’ve really gone, and without it to dominate the space, the hangar seems impossibly vast.

It doesn’t take long to spot the door against the far wall. Ford notices it at the same time as Candy does, judging by the way they both move towards it. Pacifica, though, takes a step backwards, and it takes Ford a moment to realise they've left her behind.

"Wait. What about Mabel?" She crosses her arms over her chest. “We can’t just leave her up there alone.”

“Mabel can become invisible,” Candy points out. “And Dipper cannot be outrun.”

“Yeah.” Grenda’s face is worried, but her words are reassuring. “If they really needed your help, Mabel wouldn’t’ve sent you away, right?”

Pacifica bites her lower lip, glancing back over her shoulder at the closed door behind them. 

“I really don’t think we should leave,” she says, rubbing her upper arms. 

“Too bad, it’s three to one,” Grenda booms, and then, as something slams against the door, grabs Pacifica around the waist despite her yelps of protest, slinging her over one shoulder. “You’ve just been outvoted!”

The four of them - well, three, with Pacifica in tow - run across the hangar, Ford bringing up the rear and keeping an eye on the door behind them as it shudders and shakes. Candy is the one who cautiously opens the door that Ford hopes leads out onto the grounds, peers around it and gives the all-clear. 

Ford isn’t sure about the others, but he knows that he at least is holding his breath as they emerge into the cool early-morning air. The staircase they found lets out behind what he’d believed was a storage shed, on the edge of the woods encircling the school. Behind them, around the school, Ford can see the helicopters, the black figures swarming the grounds, the - the convoy of military-looking trucks pulled into the drive -

“You. Freeze.”

Ford, stupidly, turns around. 

“I said freeze!” the figure in heavy black tactical gear barks, jerking the muzzle of his gun in Ford’s direction. Ford slowly raises both hands, palms out, looks to make sure that the girls are all right. 

He’s not sure what happens, it’s all too fast, but when Ford looks back up, the figure in tactical gear is on the ground, his own gunbelt wrapped around his wrists, tying them behind his back. Dipper’s standing over him, with the man’s gun in his hands and one foot on the soldier’s back. 

“Don’t try to move,” he says, shortly, as the soldier groans and shifts. “No matter how fast you think you are, I promise I’m faster.”

“Dipper,” Ford says, and finds himself unable to manage any more words. His knees threaten to give out underneath him, and he asks, quickly, “Where’s Mabel?”

Dipper’s face falls. “She’s not with you?”

“She went looking for you - you mean to say that she didn’t find you?”

Both Dipper and Ford turn to look back towards the school and the black-clad figures carrying - carrying limp figures down the stairs and into the trucks lined up around the drive.

“What...?” Ford asks, out loud, but even as he does, he catches a glimpse of Carla’s pink pyjamas and the pieces fall into place. “No.”

“What’s going on?” Grenda asks, in what probably passes for a whisper for Grenda, and Candy shushes her before repeating the question in an actual whisper.

Dipper turns to the one person who hasn’t spoken, a glare crossing his face. “Why don’t you tell them,  _Pacifica_?”

The other three turn. Pacifica takes a step back - another step back, judging by how far she’s already backed away. Her expression shifts from frightened to defiant at Dipper’s words, and she tosses her hair, crossing her arms. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you know  _exactly_  what I’m talking about. You lied to us!”

Pacifica takes another shrinking step back. 

“I - I didn’t want to!” she blurts. “They made me! If I didn’t -”

“What, they’d lock you up and treat you like an animal? Well, congratulations, you dodged that bullet by selling all our friends out so they can do it to them instead!”

Pacifica’s gaze darts from one face to another, finds no sympathy. 

“I didn’t know!” she protests, her hands curling into fists. “I had no idea they were going to do this. All they told me was that they needed a reason to shut the school down. If I vanished and then turned up here -”

“So you admit it. You were going to let all of us take the fall, just to save your own skin,” Dipper says. He’s practically glowing with anger, and Ford can hardly blame him. “I wish I could say that I can’t believe it.”

“Wait, you set us up?” Grenda says, and Candy shakes her head, narrowing her eyes. Ford’s pretty sure the warning rattle he can hear is coming from her, somehow, but he’s not certain this is the time to ask - or investigate - how she’s making it.

“I was right about you all along,” Dipper says, his hands curling into fists. “You’re exactly like your parents.”

Pacifica looks down at her feet, wringing her hands. 

“All right. This is not helping us. We need a plan,” Candy says, glaring at Pacifica when she ventures to take a step to rejoin the group. “How do we undo what the  _Northwests_  have done?”

"Punching everybody is a plan!" Grenda thunders, slamming a fist into the palm of her opposite hand. Pacifica flinches at the sound.

“Whatever it is, it’d better be fast,” Dipper says, watching as the last of the black-clad figures piling into the final truck, the first truck slowly starting to move.

"Helloo, punching everybody! Fast, efficient, gets the job done!"

"I  _have_  been working on a robot..." Candy muses.

Ford clears his throat, and all eyes turn towards him. He thinks, briefly, of  ~~Stanley, who had always taken the lead in their more reckless adventures and who would just die laughing if he knew what Ford's planning~~  Fiddleford, and how much he wishes his friend were here to bounce ideas off of, to tell Ford whether what he's thinking of is wise or even possible - but then again, Ford's only ever discovered the limits of possibility by testing them.

"I have a plan," he says.

...

"So why Nighthawk, anyway?"

The kid Stan is really, honestly trying to start thinking of as Nighthawk crosses and uncrosses his feet where they're propped against the dashboard, stares out the windshield. "Well, it's kind of in reference to how I can fly, and kind of in reference to, like, darkness -"

"Yeah, yeah, kinda figured that part out on my own," Stan grumbles. "I mean why give yourself a different name in the first place?" He thinks he deserves a medal for not adding 'and why pick such a stupid-sounding one'.

"Wh- come on, you can't actually not know about mutant names," R- Nighthawk sneers, and Stan reconsiders holding back on letting him know how dumb it sounds. "What, did you think, like, Magneto's parents named him that?"

"I can and will leave you on the side of the road."

"No you won't, you need a navigator." Nighthawk leans back in the passenger seat, tucking both hands behind his head. "It's all about, like, self-determination. Like who your shitty parents thought you'd be isn't who you are, y'know? Only for us, it's more than, like, growing up to be an artist when they wanted you to go to law school."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stan mutters, twisting his hands on the steering wheel.

"Nobody except mutants expects their kid to turn out to be a mutant, right? So your parents give you a name based on their shitty expectations of what you'll be like, saddle you with all  _their_  baggage, stick you with this idea of this nice, normal human kid they expect you to be but you can't ever be - and like, who wants to identify themselves with  _that_  for the rest of their life? So it's just about, like, claiming your own life for yourself. Like, fuck you, mom and dad! This isn’t the dead guy you named me after, this isn’t the nice  _normal_  kid you wanted - this is  _me_." The look of self-satisfied pride fades off of Nighthawk's face, and he says, "Hey, we're gonna fill this up with gas before we head back, right? My dad'll be so pissed if we bring it back with an empty tank."

"Sure," Stan says, unable to keep a small smile off his face.

He's pretty sure 90% of what Nighthawk's just said is a load of bullshit, or at least not what the original idea behind 'mutant names' or whatever was, but it's still something to mull over as he drives, instead of  ~~how worried he is about Ford and the fact that he hadn't been able to hear that full news story~~  how much he hates the radio stations Nighthawk chooses. It'd be...kind of nice not to have to drag his dad's name around with him anymore. Hell, it'd be nice not to have to be reminded every time he hears his own damn name that he wasn't even supposed to be born...

"Whoa whoa whoa wait, we got news,” Nighthawk says, kicking his feet down from the dashboard and leaning over to turn up the radio. The announcer’s voice on this channel is thankfully much clearer and sharper than the first station they’d tried, uninterrupted by static. 

“Breaking news at the top of this hour: missing heiress Pacifica Northwest has been found.”

Stan glances over, meets Nighthawk’s eyes.

“Thanks to the tireless diligence and cooperation of the FBI and local law enforcement, the missing girl, who is the only daughter of prominent senator Preston Northwest and former Miss Roadkill County, Priscilla Northwest, has been located after a day and a half of searching. Miss Northwest was first reported missing yesterday evening, the victim of a suspected kidnapping by mutant extremists opposed to Senator Northwest’s proposed Mutant Control Act. Several suspects have been taken into custody, and Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters is currently under lockdown pending further investigation.”

“Wait, what?” Stan says, but the newsanchor carries on into the next story, the bridge collapse he’s already heard about. “No, hang on, who are these ‘suspects’? Why would the school -”

“ _Northwest_ ,” Nighthawk spits. “Give me half an hour alone with that guy and I promise I’d pound him into a pulp.”

“How? You just got your ass handed to you this morning because you didn’t realise punching somebody on solid bone would hurt your scrawny noodle hands,” Stan says. 

Nighthawk scowls.

“This is some kind of trick of his,” he says. “I’m telling you, this has ‘Northwest’ written all over it. Betcha five bucks he let his kid get kidnapped just to make us look bad. No, wait - had her kidnapped  _himself_.”

“You sound way too excited about that,” Stan says, and Nighthawk shrugs.

“Don’t trust the media, man. It’s all lies and propoganda.”

“What, and your magical unbiased source is...?”

This seems to be the thing that finally stumps Nighthawk. He turns and slouches against the door, staring out the window. 

Stan turns his attention back to the road, and it isn’t long before he slips back into the near-trance that driving long distances can put a guy into. Vague suggestions of scenarios unspool themselves across the back of his mind, different ways he might see Ford again for the first time in nearly a year, different things he might say, different ways Ford might react. Not all of them are good, and the thought sends a little chill down Stan’s spine. 

He tunes back in at the sight of something odd, just in time to see a second huge, military-looking, gunmetal-grey truck tear past in the opposite direction of their station wagon at a ridiculous speed. 

"This isn't anywhere near a base or anything, right?" Stan asks, as a third truck sails past.

"No, and it's not on any major routes for military transport. Is it just me, or was that -" Nighthawk stops mid-sentence, gripping his seat with both hands as Stan checks the rearview mirror for anyone coming up behind them, then stomps on the brake and spins the wheel as hard as he can. "Holy shit - don't wreck my parents' car!"

Stan doesn't listen, just flooring the gas and spinning the station wagon around in a U-turn to follow after the little convoy. 

It's not just Nighthawk. Stan's also sure he caught a glimpse, through the window of the cab of the second truck, of Pacifica Northwest.

...

Ford is still half in disbelief that his plan has actually worked so far. Even with Pacifica...smoothing things over, he'd thought for sure something would give them away, his nervousness or how loosely the bulletproof vest fits him or his total lack of knowledge of military jargon. But here he is, sitting in the cab of one of the trucks, masquerading as the soldier who'd accosted them on the grounds, with Pacifica sandwiched between him and the driver. Somewhere in the box of the truck behind them, Grenda, Candy, and Dipper are lying low, pretending to be just as tranquilized as the other students, waiting for the sign to start causing havoc. 

Pacifica elbows Ford in the side, and he glances down to see her glaring up at her. Right. She’d given him a scolding once already about getting too nervous and letting it bleed over to her. Ford takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It’s working fine so far. There’s no reason to believe that the rest of the plan won’t go just as well. 

Ford leans forward, holding his gloved hands over the hot-air vents on the dash like he’s trying to warm them up. His sixth fingers are starting to cramp, pinched into one finger of his gloves along with his fifth fingers, but he doesn’t dare take the gloves off and risk the driver seeing his hands.

He concentrates.

It isn't easy, trying to reverse the 'push' that Ford now realises he'd given his perpetual motion machine, to pull energy back from the moving engine and let it disperse into the air. It takes a few minutes to take hold, minutes Ford spends sweating through his borrowed uniform. He's certain every second that he's about to be caught, that it's all going to be over. He doesn't even have any real proof of his theory that one's powers can be...repurposed, trained to work in ways that don't come instinctually, and even if he had, he's never tried it himself. He's working entirely on guesswork and hope. This was impossibly foolish, and there's no way it's going to -

Ford catches himself, reminds himself again of all the people relying on him to keep his head. He can do this. He can do anything. He just needs to control his fear.

The engine sputters, coughs, and, as the driver exclaims in surprise and wrenches at the wheel, chugs to a halt. A plume of black smoke starts to eke out from under the hood, and in seconds, it's pouring out, thick and foul-smelling and ugly. The back of the first truck, growing farther and farther ahead as the truck starts its long, slow drift to a stop, is nearly completely obscured.

"What the -" the driver mutters, cutting himself off with a curse as he hammers the heel of his hand against the array of buttons on the dash beside him. 

"Engine trouble?" Ford asks, with a glance in the rearview mirror. Behind him, he can see the third truck starting to slow as well. The radio crackles with hails from the other two-thirds of the transport convoy. Ford ignores them.

"Damn thing's gone right out," the driver growls, as he reluctantly spins the wheel to take the truck over into the shoulder. "Better not be one of those muties messing around, the lot of 'em were supposed to be sedated -"

He stops, with his foot on the brake and his hand on the four-way flashers, as Ford pushes up his visor and tugs off his helmet. "Hey, you're not -"

"You missed one," Ford says, calm and flat as a snow-covered field.

The driver's look of shock is frozen at the exact moment it starts to turn to rage.

Ford shucks his gloves, wincing slightly as blood rushes back into his cramped fingers. He gives them an experimental wiggle, making sure that all twelve are still functional.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," Pacifica says, after a moment's silence. "Not at all traumatised by having just seen a man die right beside me."

Ford spares the driver the briefest of glances. "He'll most likely be fine. In fact, if properly thawed, this may actually add a few minutes to his lifespan, considering the experiments that have been done with cryogenics -"

"Whatever," Pacifica says, as the third truck pulls to a slow halt behind them.

The radio in the dash crackles to life again, another truck hailing them. "Come in, Delta Charlie Tango. Delta Charlie Tango, what is your status?"

Ford glances over at Pacifica, who gives an exaggerated shrug. "You just froze the only guy who knows how we're supposed to respond to that."

Ford looks up through the smoke still streaming from under the hood, to the first truck in the convoy, finally, finally starting to pull to a halt - too far ahead. But it can't be helped. He leans over, grabs the radio receiver, and answers, in his best authoritative voice, "This is Delta Charlie Tango. We're experiencing engine failure. Don't think it's because of the cargo, but you can't be too careful around these freaks." He considers adding 'over' to the end of his transmission, decides against it. It's just like playing spies with  ~~Stan~~  a pair of walkie talkies when he was little. He just has to be careful not to overdo it.

The radio crackles back to life, and Ford lets go of a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Roger that, Delta Charlie Tango. Backup is coming your way."

Ford smiles to himself, and then sees the look Pacifica's giving him.

"I hope you're not having second thoughts," he says, trying to make the words sound jocular and light. Pacifica quirks an eyebrow in his direction.

"No, I - Do you really think that's how we talk about you?"

Ford raises a hand, waggles his fingers. "I've been on the receiving end of it often enough, I believe I've captured the gist." He watches Pacifica's expression turn thoughtful, asks, "Did you think people  _didn't_  talk about us like that?"

Pacifica shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Most people I know don't bother talking about you at all."

Ford glances back in the rearview mirror.

"I notice you're still putting yourself on the 'human' side of the equation," he observes, to no one in particular.

Pacifica doesn't respond.

Ford sighs, reaching over to push open the door. He pulls his stolen gloves back on before he jumps out of the truck, waiting by the door to help Pacifica down after him. The third truck is pulling up behind them, just shuddering to a halt. It’s time to go.

“Signal the others,” he says to Pacifica, who squeezes her eyes shut in apparent concentration. Ford walks around behind the truck, the unfamiliar heavy boots slowing his steps as he approaches the bolted doors holding the children in the back. He reaches up, to unlock or to break the bolt.

And that’s when everything goes wrong.

...

One minute, Stan’s pulling up alongside the convoy stopped on the side of the road, slowing down so he and Nighthawk can both look out and maybe see what’s going on with the convoy and the plume of rising smoke coming from under the hood of the middle truck. The next, he’s slamming on the brakes and killing the engine, ignoring Nighthawk’s protests as he flings the door open and nearly flies out of the station wagon. Nighthawk keeps yelling, but Stan can barely hear him over the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, can barely feel his own feet slapping against the scrabbly gravel of the shoulder.

Nothing feels real or solid until his palm lands on the shoulder of  ~~his brother’s~~  Ford’s thick black body armour and spins him around, until the knuckles of Stan’s other hand connect sharply with Ford’s face.

The sting brings Stan abruptly back down to earth. It’s as though a bubble full of cotton that had been surrounding him, insulating him, has suddenly popped, and Stan’s abruptly aware of how loud and sharp the world around him is. There’s a stitch blazing up his side, his legs are burning, his knuckles are split, and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke fills his nose, makes him want to cough. The shouts from the men running towards him are piercing, falling on Stan’s ears as meaningless noise.

“You sunovabitch,” Stan snarls down at Ford, who’s lying on the side of the road, staring up at Stan like he’s just seen a ghost. “You - you -”

Ford’s voice is breathy, choked, as though Stan’s wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed instead of cracking his knuckles against Ford’s cheekbone. “Stanley? How -”

Up until now, Stan’s been kind of on the fence about this whole Brotherhood thing. Sure, he knows what the jerks on TV have to say, he remembers Crampelter and how the kids at school treated Ford, he knows Wendy’s had to run away, he knows how his dad reacted - but his dad’s always wanted him gone, one excuse less or more wouldn’t have changed that. The jerks on TV are the same old jerks on TV, picking on anybody and everybody they can get a rise out of, just looking for attention, everybody knows you can’t believe a word they say. Kids were bullies - Stan himself had been on the receiving end just as often as Ford had, and for similarly nonexistent reasons. And people’d treated him like shit the whole time he was living in the Stanleymobile without even knowing what he was - without  _him_  even knowing what he was. You didn’t have to be a mutant for the world to kick you in the teeth, over and over and over again. And no matter what guys like Nighthawk had to say, Stan couldn’t buy that there was anything - any _one_  - who was so particularly out to get  _them_  that it was worse than what life just naturally dealt to anybody with the gall not to be rich and famous.

In the dark inside the back of the truck that’s just come speeding away from the school, the truck that Ford’s just thrown open, kids -  _kids_  - are piled on each other like parcels, little unconscious bundles of bright pastel pyjamas stacked up like little corpses.

Up until now, Stan hadn’t understood.

A little boy’s delicate, iridescent insect wing twitches, and Stan sees red.

Ford’s pushed himself up on his elbows when Stan rounds on him again, the look of stunned disbelief slowly ebbing into an all-too-familiar irritation. This time, though, Stan doesn’t give him a chance to say whatever he’s lining up on his tongue.

“What,” he asks, before Ford can open his mouth, taking in the sight of Ford’s stupid outfit, the stupid eagle insignia on his arm, the same as the one on the sides of all three trucks, “you got sick of taking it and decided it was time you got a chance to dish it out instead?”

Ford’s voice is exasperated, exhausted. “Would you let me explain? This isn’t what it looks like -”

“Oh, what,” Stan forces out, around the huge, hot thing that seems to have lodged itself in his chest. “This was an  _accident_?”

He feels a little surge of vicious pride at the flinch Ford tries to hide, but it’s quickly swallowed up and swept away by the tide of fury.

“That’s different -” Ford starts, and Stan squeezes his fists tight.

“Yeah? You wanna explain to me how?”

“Stanley, you’re being ridiculous -”

“ _I’m_  being ridiculous?”

“You’re both ridiculous!” a high, unfamiliar voice shouts, and Stan is abruptly reminded that there’s a world beyond him and  ~~his brother~~  this asshole he unfortunately shares his DNA with. Pacifica Northwest is glaring daggers at both Stan and Ford, her hands balled into tiny fists at her sides and her feet planted in a pretty passable boxing stance. “This is  _not_  the time or place for your...” She glances from Ford to Stan, studying his face for a long moment. “Your sibling squabbles!”

Ford shoots one more dirty look in Stan’s direction, before pushing himself to his feet and turning to face Pacifica, away from Stan. “Of course. There are far more important things to worry about right now than petty grudges that would have been resolved long ago if  _some_ one could only admit their wrongdoing and apologise -”

Stan hits him again.

It’s a dirty move, the kind that got him kicked out of boxing. His left fist collides with Ford’s ear, and Ford is stumbling back, trying to catch his balance. Before he can, Stan lashes out to punch him again - or, at least, he tries to, but Ford steps shortly back out of Stan’s reach and, when Stan starts to overbalance, grabs Stan by the wrist of his leading arm and they both tumble to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs.

Stan's not sure exactly what happens next, or in what order. Dimly, he’s aware there are shouts, rattles and pops of gunfire, screams, from around him, but all Stan can really hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. Ford stubbornly refuses to stay down as Stan wrestles with him, trying to keep him from getting up while trying to get to his own feet, narrowly missing taking Pacifica down with them. Ford tries to elbow Stan in the stomach, but it’s a shallow, glancing blow, since Ford’s pinned face-down with little room to gain leverage. It’s enough to wind Stan for a moment, though, enough for him to loosen his grip.

“And here - I was -  _worried_  - about you,” Stan coughs out, as Ford scrambles away, pushing himself up to his knees.

“I’m very sorry about this,” Ford says, shortly. “Nothing personal.”

Before Stan can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, cold sinks its teeth into him. He tries to get up, but finds himself stuck - his arms and legs glued to the ground, encased in ice.

There are helicopter blades whupping somewhere overhead, too low, too close. A voice, alarmingly deep, rises over the other shouts, growing and growing in volume until it drowns all other sounds, sets Stan's eardrums buzzing, lances pain through his head - until it's abruptly cut off. The ice is taking forever to melt, it keeps smothering the flames he manages to briefly summon up, and no matter how Stan strains against it, refuses to break.

He turns to glare at Ford and finds Ford staring, as still as though he's the one who's frozen in place, not Stan. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," Stan snarls, and Ford gives a little shudder, like he's just waking up. The look on his face is - indescribable. If Stan didn't know better he'd almost call it pity.

"Stanley," he breathes, "you...?"

"We're twins, poindexter," Stan sighs.

"You! On the ground! Now!"

Ford turns at the shout, and Stan gives an aborted yelp as the butt of the gun held by the soldier who'd shouted slams into the side of  ~~his brother's~~  Ford's face. Ford crumples, his glasses skittering across the ground towards Stan, who doubles his efforts to break out of Ford's stupid ice prison.

The ice holding down Stan's right arm finally gives, with a crackle and a wrench that makes him feel like his shoulder's about to come out of its socket. It burns as he reaches over and slings fire at the squad of guys in black flak jackets and cargo pants coming running towards them with heavy artillery trained on them. It burns as he focuses the flame on his other arm, trying to melt his way free. It burns as he wrenches his other arm free as well, too late to stop the couple of commandos who scoop Ford's limp body up like a sack of cement. Too late to stop the one who takes careful aim at the centre of Stan's own forehead.

Too late.


	6. Chapter 6

When Stan wakes up, it's dark and cold and he's lying on something hard - metallic? - and rough that digs into his shoulder and hip. That's not so unusual, though - he hasn't really had a good night's sleep since he wound up on the street. 

What is unusual is whatever's holding his hands tied behind his back.

He groans, and tugs at the bands wrapped around his wrists. They’re thin and tight. Zip ties, maybe? Definitely not handcuffs, which makes this harder. ~~He’s practiced getting out of those cuffs that came with the magic kit he’d gotten for Christmas the year Ford got the chemistry set so many times that he could do it in his sleep, probably.~~  But there’s just enough room that, if he can turn his right hand just like _this_  and shift his left shoulder like _that_  -

He stops, freezing in place, when he hears the voice.

“Stanley?”

“Ford?” Stan croaks.

He can’t see anything but the weirdly grey-slatey-silver wall in front of him, but he hears someone shift, behind him. “Yes, Stan, it’s me.”

“Great,” Stan mutters, into the cold floor beneath his cheek. “You wanna tell me just what the hell’s goin’ on here?”

“I wish I knew,” Ford mutters, from somewhere behind Stan, and Stan rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to trying to work his hands free of the zip tie.

“Don’t play dumb, poindexter. You’re the one who crawled into bed with these jerks -”

“I told you already, that was a misunderstanding,” Ford says, and even though Stan can’t see his face, he’s pretty sure Ford’s gritting his teeth.

“What, like the little ‘misunderstanding’ that got me kicked out?” Stan asks, and the words sting at the back of his own throat like bile.

“Stanley -” Ford starts, but before Stan has a chance to interrupt him, he interrupts himself, biting off whatever else he was about to say.

The room is quiet around them, the kind of quiet that makes Stan think of cathedrals and five-AM airports and other high, empty places. The cold is dull and constant, seeping up through the floor into his bones, not quite enough to sting or to numb but enough to make him uncomfortable. There’s a faint, clunky whirring noise that highlights the silence, like a distant fan, and a buzz from overhead that has to be the lights, but otherwise Stan can’t hear any background noise, nothing from outside. The light is dim, watery and greenish, and he can’t tell if it’s day or night.

“Are we underground?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Ford says, shortly. “It’s probable. Look, I was trying to help get those kids _out_  of there, I had to pretend -”

“Just can it,” Stan mutters. “Don’t wanna hear it. Let’s just get ourselves out of this mess so we can both go back to pretending the other one don’t exist.”

Ford is quiet, after that.

Stan’s wrist chafes against the tie holding his hands behind his back, and trying to twist his hand enough to get it out scrapes the plastic against a place where the skin is rubbed raw. He bites down on his tongue, trying not to curse, not wanting Ford to see him explode again.

Wait. Plastic. If whatever he’s tied up with is plastic, then -

Stan _pushes_ , bracing himself for molten plastic dripping down his hand, but there’s nothing. Not even the warm breath of his own flames.

“Wha -” he starts, and Ford sighs.

“This chamber must be environmentally controlled somehow, or have some sort of dampening agent. Our powers don’t work here. I’ve tried.”

 _“Our_  powers.” Stan snorts. “Hey, look on the bright side, you’re getting exactly what you wanted. Now you’re normal!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Ford sighs, again, like _he’s_ the one who’s been unfairly and unreasonably treated like a villain. "I wasn't with those soldiers. I stole a uniform to help blend in, I was trying to help the others escape -"

"What'd I do or say that made you think I wanna hear it?" Stan snaps.

"I am trying to explain myself to you!" Ford shouts. "If you would just _listen_ to me -"

“No, you listen to _me_!” Stan shouts. “You’re always interrupting me, blowing me off - it’s about time you got a taste of your own medicine!”

“So you would put your own hurt feelings over the lives of innocent children?” Ford says, and his voice is dark as thunderclouds.

“You know what, maybe I would!” Stan doesn’t give Ford a chance to answer, can just imagine the self-righteous look of fury settling onto his brother’s face. There’s something dark and ugly and stinging welling up in his chest, blocking the back of his throat, and it feels like he has to let it spill out his mouth or choke on it. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through since you turned your back and let me get kicked out? Do you even _care_?”

“This is not the time -” Ford starts, his voice sharp and tight, and Stan scoffs. 

“No, of course you don’t. _You_  got scooped up as soon as I was outta the picture! _You’re_ the _good one_!” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you're the dumbest smart guy I ever met? Any school - any _body_ \- would be over the moon to have you, no big surprise that the public face of mutant relations came knocking the minute I was outta the picture. But who the fuck would want somebody like me as their poster kid? I’m just some - some high school dropout with nothin’ goin’ for him, and - and -” He stops. He’s not sure where he’s going with this. He’s not sure he wants to go where this is taking him. "Look, I hadda take what I could get. And - maybe they're the bad guys, but they're not _bad guys_ , yanno? Sure, this kidnapping thing was stupid from the get-go, but..." 

"Kidnapping -" Ford pauses. "Stanley, did you - you didn't join the _Brotherhood of Mutants_?"

Stan shrugs as best he can with his hands bound behind his back. "Why not? They sure care a lot more about me than my own family ever did."

The fan clunks one, two, three times overhead.

“Is that why you did it?” Ford says, behind him, and Stan presses his forehead against the rough floor, breathes out. “Why you deliberately tried to hold me back? Because you felt like you were being - underappreciated? Left behind?”

“I told you a million times, poindexter, it was an accident,” Stan mumbles into the concrete, suddenly exhausted. “I never meant -”

“But you never tried not to, either!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you could have  _tried_  not to ruin the one thing that my whole life was riding on! That you could have paid a little attention to the needs of others for once in your life!” There’s a familiar note of frustration in Ford’s voice, the anger of long nights bent over AP Calculus drumming a pencil against the same paragraph over and over and over again, and the familiarity of it makes something twist painfully in Stan’s gut. “That you could have, I don’t know, put your own amusement second to my _entire future_ -”

“Looks like you got a pretty good future right here,” Stan says, and Ford blows out an angry breath.

“I would if it hadn’t all just been shot to hell by Senator Northwest,” he mutters, at last, and Stan manages to squeeze out a bitter laugh.

“What, you’re not gonna pin this one on me too?”

“Oh, trust me,” Ford says, but the cold fury in his voice wavers slightly, revealing - if Stan’s not imagining it - the barest hint of humour. “I’m trying to.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say to that. Stan rests his head against the floor, halfheartedly tries to work his hands out of the ties around his wrists again, but gives up after a couple of tries.

“I’m...sorry. About jumping you,” he says, when the silence is starting to get almost unbearable. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen to the kids - I just saw you there, in that uniform, by that truck, and -”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Ford says, and by the sound of his voice he’s talking to his feet. “If our roles had been reversed, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

The silence returns, the clunks of the fan eating up the seconds. It feels a little less chilly than it had a moment ago, though, and Stan takes this as a good sign.

“We gotta get out of here,” he says, resigning himself to the idea even as he carefully tries to run his fingers over the ties around his wrists, looking for joins or other possible weak points. “Got any genius ideas?”

“If only,” Ford sighs. “I tested everything I could think of while you were asleep. My powers don’t work, I can't lower temperatures in my immediate vicinity. I believe my hands are zip-tied. They’re bound behind my back with something strong, but narrow. There’s really nothing in the chamber but us - not even any kind of provision for...necessary waste disposal, which leads me to believe they’re not intending to hold us here for long. The door is a vault door, we won’t be getting it open with anything short of an explosion, and I haven’t been able to find any weak or hollow-sounding points in the wall.”

“How’d you test for that with your hands tied behind your back?” Stan asks, even as he turns the information over in his mind. “Walk around and bang your head against the wall?”

Ford is incriminatingly silent.

Despite everything, Stan can't hold back a huff of laughter.

“Okay, no hollow spots,” he says, finally, taking pity on Ford. An idea strikes him, and he says, “You said they’re not planning to hold us here for long. That means they’re gonna move us, right? That means they’ve gotta open this tin can up sometime.”

“It might just mean they’re planning to kill us,” Ford says, and the gloom and despair weighing down his voice is so thick Stan can almost feel it on his shoulders.

“Nah, if they were gonna kill us they wouldn’t have bothered sticking us in a special no-powers prison in the first place,” Stan says, trying to brush off Ford’s moping. “If they wanted us dead they woulda just shot us back on the side of the road. But here we are. Which means they want something from us. We’re _valuable_.”

“Oh, excellent,” Ford grumbles, and this time his voice is heavy with sarcasm as well as despair. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll be paraded around like sideshow freaks.”

“No, see, this means we’ve got leverage!” Stan’s grinning now, and he can’t seem to stop. “If they want something from us, then they’re not gonna kill us. They’re probably not even gonna hurt us too bad, at least not in ways that’d make us less valuable. But _we_  don’t got the same problem.”

“I’m not engaging in murder, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Ford says coldly. 

Stan draws in a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “Did I say that? Don’t think I said that.”

“Then what _were_  you implying?”

“We got nothing to lose. They do. We got something they _want_. That means -”

“We have a bargaining chip,” Ford says, slowly, like it’s starting to dawn on him.

Stan grins, even though he knows Ford can’t see it. “We have a bargaining chip.”

The fan clunks away overhead, and Stan feels like he can practically hear the wheels turning in his brother’s head. Ford’s genius brain had better be putting two and two together and coming up with a plan to get them out of here. Stan wonders, idly, what it’ll look like. Maybe they could -

 _Oh._  That’d work.

“Hey, poindexter,” Stan says, as nonchalant as he can manage, trying not to let his excitement bleed through into his voice. He can’t believe he hasn’t considered it before, but they’re probably being watched, or at least recorded. Maybe it’d be better not to talk their whole plan out in plain language.

“Yes, Stanley?”

Stan gives his bindings another experimental twist. “Remember that time in fifth grade when we got stuck in the same class with Crampelter?”

Somewhere behind him, Ford heaves a sigh. “Yes, Stanley, though I can’t imagine why _that_  should have crossed your mind at a time like this. This is hardly the time for reminiscing.”

Stan shrugs, or tries to, the floor underneath him hampering his movements. “Eh, no time like the present. Dad was so mad when he figured out how you’d been avoiding having to go, _remember_?” He stresses the last word, hoping Ford will pick up on his meaning. For all his genius, Ford can be a real blockhead when he wants to.

“I don’t see what relevance our father’s reaction to a childhood prank -” Ford starts, and then stops. Even though his back is turned towards Ford, Stan can almost _see_  Ford’s eyes widening in realisation.

“Yeah,” Stan says, before Ford can blurt out the whole plan for the benefit of whatever security cameras or microphones might be bugging the cell they’re in. “Made Ma grounding us for a month look like gettin’ off easy.”

There’s a little huff from behind Stan that might be laughter. “I don’t remember. I just remember the whipping you got after they forced us to go to class and you broke Crampelter’s nose.”

“Hey, he had it comin’,” Stan snaps, a little too defensive. “Somebody hadda do it, things’d gone way past sittin’ down over tea and crumpets for a nice civilised chat. And he gave us one hell of a wide berth after that, didn’t he?” He grins, fierce. “ ‘sides. Nobody messes with my brother.”

Ford sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Stan feels his smile slip.

“F’r what it’s worth,” he says, to the cold ground, “I really am sorry.”

Ford is quiet for what feels like a long, long time.

Finally, he says, “For what it’s worth...I am too.”

...

Stanley is, much as it begrudges Ford to admit it, right. It doesn’t take long before a section of the wall slides aside and two figures in what looks like full riot gear, with weaponry that wouldn’t be out of place in an armed conflict with a tank, step into the room, drag him to his feet, and start to haul him away. Two more follow, pulling Stan along in their wake.

The plan is, by necessity, nebulous. It has to be, in order to be flexible enough to account for whatever unknown variables might present themselves when Stan and Ford actually try to put it into action, but it still makes Ford a little uneasy. He’d prefer to have more information, more idea of what’s to come and how to face it. He’s never been ~~as~~ good ~~as Stan~~ at thinking on his feet.

He’s also a terrible actor, which is why his heart pounds wildly in his chest as he calls, “Wait! Where are you taking me? What _is_  this place? What’s going on? Who -”

Ford doesn’t get a response, but then, he isn’t really expecting one. He’s just trying to make enough noise that it’ll be noticeable when he suddenly stops yelling mid-sentence, rolls his eyes back in his head, and drops limply to the floor.

This trick never would’ve worked on their father, or even their mother, but it had certainly convinced Miss Shepard to send Ford to the nurse’s office to sleep it off more than once. He just hopes it will be sufficient to convince their guards. His arm is trapped painfully between his torso and the floor, and he’s pretty sure he scraped his chin open on something when he fell, but he doesn’t dare shift and risk their plan. More than only his and Stanley’s lives may depend on it.

Stan’s yelling, now, and Ford tries not to let a smile sneak across his face. His brother is a _much_  better actor, which is why Ford is the one currently lying motionless on the floor and just trying to look unconscious. There’s what sounds like genuine fear mixed into the rasp of Stan’s voice, peeking through his anger. “Don’t you _touch_  my brother, you bastards! What’d you do to him!?”

A heavy, gloved hand lands on Ford’s shoulder, and he nearly panics, jerking with shock. Stan’s yell of “Ford!” is as much for Ford’s benefit as it is for the guards’, a sharp reminder not to give the game away too soon.

Ford feels as though his mind has been wiped blank, like a blackboard full of junk equations when one has to start over. He can’t _think_  on his feet the same way Stanley can, he can’t -

An idea strikes him, and he flutters his eyelids, arches his back, jerks his head from side to side. Tries to remember, to imitate, the symptoms of seizure. Silently, he curses himself, Stan, anyone and anything he can think of. This is _much_  more acting than he’d signed up for, and he can see himself in his mind’s eye, flailing around on the floor like a caught fish flopping in the bottom of a boat. Only an idiot would be fooled by this little performance, why the hell had he gone along with this ridiculous plan in the first place -

“ _Shit_ , is he having a seizure?” Stan yells, his voice edging closer and closer to panic. As the gloved hand is snatched away from Ford’s shoulder, all Ford can think is how lucky they both are that at least _one_  of them is a competent actor. Stan’s hysteria must thankfully be drawing the guards’ attention away from Ford’s mediocre performance, or someone would certainly have called their bluff by now. “What’d you _do_  to him!? Leave my brother alone! Ford! _Ford!”_

"Don’t touch him! He might break something,” an unfamiliar voice barks, and Ford has to assume it’s one of the guards. “Cipher wouldn’t like that.”

“Aren’t you supposed to make sure they don’t swallow their _tongues_  or anything?” Stan demands, not letting up for a second, not letting them focus on Ford, who’s starting to wear himself out with all this twitching. He’s banged his head on the floor, and it’s starting to throb, low and deep. “You did this to him! Fix it!”

“You.” The unfamiliar voice shifts, and Stan makes a noise of pain that nearly startles Ford out of the act again. “Has this happened before? What’s going on?”

“How should I know? He was fine until _your_  guys -” Stan yelps, cutting off his own sentence, and when he speaks again his voice is breathy and choked, like he’s been winded. There’s still defiance in every syllable, though, and Ford feels a strange tightness in his chest. “ _No_ , this hasn’t _happened before_! Do you think I’d be freaking out so much if this was some kind of a regular thing?”

There’s a huff of a sigh from the guard, and then his voice becomes clearer again, like he’s turned in Ford’s direction. “Do any of you know first aid?”

"At least get those stupid zip ties offa him! He's gonna wrench an arm outta its socket like this!"

Ford thrashes harder, adding another jittery flutter of his eyelashes to his repertoire. He gives an extra jerk when a hand lands on his shoulder, roughly shoving him over onto his front, and tries to hold his arms still without seeming like he’s trying to hold his arms still.

There's a wrench, the plastic tie digging into Ford's wrists and grinding against bone until, abruptly, there's a _snap_ and the pressure vanishes.

Ford flails up, lashing out as soon as his arms are free. His hands are still a little numb, his joints stiff, but his fist still connects. The guard who'd cut his bonds doubles over clutching his throat, and Ford jumps to his feet, hands balled into fists, ready to take on the rest.

At least, he's ready until he sees the gun that one of the remaining guards is holding against Stan's head.

"Make one more move, and I'll splatter his brains all over this hallway," the man says, conversationally, and Ford squeezes one fist until he can feel the crescents of his fingernails biting into the heel of his hand. 

"You wouldn't. You said yourself that your boss wouldn't like to see us injured -"

"See, that's the thing about twins," the guard says, pulling the arm he has pressed against Stan's throat tighter, until Stan's head tips back and he makes a choked noise. "You see one, you've seen 'em both."

Ford's traitor heart seizes in his chest.

Stan meets his eyes over the arm choking him, and Ford notices, with another wrench, the impressive black eye blooming on his face. Stan's gaze is pleading, and Ford has to look away.

He's been stuck in that cell for so long, pushing and pushing and _pushing_ with that strange motionless force he's come to recognise as his power and getting no results, that he overdoes it. Ice explodes out from where he stands, slamming the guards up against the walls and encasing them in fantastic frozen waves before any of them have a chance to get a shot off. Jagged crystalline sculptures climb the walls, sealing off the hallway, cocooning them in a freezing blue-white canyon.

Ford wastes no time hurrying over to help break Stan out of the frozen grip of the guard who had had him in a chokehold. Stan looks a little shell-shocked, and when he meets Ford's eyes, his expression is painfully surprised.

“How’d you know your powers were going to work?” he manages, and Ford has to look away.

“I - I didn’t.”

"That was a stupid risk to take," Stan says, flat, shifting to take the pressure off his throat. "You shoulda just bluffed like you didn't care what happened to me."

"Then he might have shot you," Ford says, struggling with the frozen arm trapped across Stan's neck.

"So what?"

"So -"

"Yeah, so what! If he shoots me, then he shoots me." Stan tries to shrug, only for the guard's immobile body to get in his way. " 's not like I'm all that important. If your little frozen temper tantrum hadn't worked, they woulda got both of us, and then who woulda gone after those kids?"

Ford says nothing. The guard's elbow creaks ominously as he tries to raise it, and he stops before he snaps it off.

"I wasn't going to let anyone shoot you," he says, finally, when Stan doesn't say anything more.

"Thought you were all about saving the innocent kids," Stan responds, after a moment. He's obviously trying hard to sound nonchalant, but Ford can't help but hear the quaver in his voice. 

"Well," Ford replies, trying his best to keep his tone equally light, "I wouldn't be much use to them without my brother, would I?"

He has to look away when Stan sniffles, nodding when Stan grunts, "Damn allergies."

It takes some doing, but finally Stan steps free. He glances around at the devastation Ford's wrought, the occasional face distorted behind bubbled ice or outthrust limb sticking from the frozen waves, and lets out a low whistle.

"Impressive," he cracks, and Ford glowers at him. "One question: how're we supposed to get out?"

Ford can feel a flush rising up his neck.

Stan laughs, mostly good-natured, and shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. "Hey, get my hands outta this shit and I'll take care of it."

It takes several minutes to get Stan untied. As soon as Ford's bare hands touch the ties holding Stan's hands, he can feel his own powers retreating out of his grasp again. The contrast is as though he's just been blindfolded or had his ears stuffed with cotton.

"This must be what they've been using to suppress our mutations," Ford says, thinking out loud as he examines the broad twist of what appears to be hard plastic tying Stan's wrists back, running a finger over its ridged surface. The sight of his own hands against the brightly-coloured tie makes Ford shudder with realisation, and he pulls his hand away. "It's most likely a good thing that I wasn't exposed to it for much longer," he continues, giving all twelve of his fingers an experimental wiggle. "I wonder how it works...?"

"Yeah, yeah, you can nerd out about it later," Stan growls. "Like when it's not _tying me up_."

Ford rolls his eyes, but he turns back to the task at hand.

He finally has to steal a knife off of the frozen guard holding Stan's utility belt, but he eventually gets Stan's wrists free. Ford tucks the broken tie into his pocket as Stan rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and turns to size up the wall of ice Ford's created blocking off the hall. It towers over them, a foot thick if it's an inch, glacial blue. It would take hours - if not days - to melt on its own.

Stan interlaces his fingers, stretching his arms out to their full length and grinning as his knuckles crack.

The fireball that blooms out from his palms is almost as tall as he is and, for the moment it takes for it to burst against the wall of ice and melt a hole in its centre, sucks all the air away.

"Was that...strictly necessary?" Ford asks, before noticing that Stan's still wearing that shit-eating grin. "Oh. Showoff."

"Says the guy who just turned this place into an igloo," Stan says, giving his shoulders a shake. "So where d'you think we'll find those kids?"

...

The fight is over in less time than it took Stan and Ford to come up with a plan to get out of their cell. Finding the kids, as it turns out, is a simple matter of following the yelling and gunfire - they’ve somehow managed to get out of wherever they’re being kept, and by the looks of things, they've held their own against anyone who's tried to put them back. And they’re not alone. 

Even though Stan’s seen them what feels like a million times on the news, there’s something really amazing about seeing the X-Men in action. The only thing more amazing is probably seeing them and the Brotherhood working together.

“I got Pacifica to call for backup. But it wasn’t like we were just going to sit around!” the boy who’s basically glued himself to Ford explains, enthusiastically, after the dust has cleared a little. He’s staring up at Ford like Ford just went to the moon and came back, so he’s not looking where he’s waving his hands and ends up nearly smacking Stan in the chest. 

Stan draws back uncomfortably, looking over the kid’s head and catching Nighthawk’s eye through the crowd. Wendy looks up, too, and smiles in Stan’s direction, and Stan manages a smile back before turning back to Ford’s new adoptive little brother or whatever. He’s guessing the kid wasn’t the only one who went for backup. 

He wonders, absently, what happened to Nighthawk’s parents’ car.

“Of course not! No hero ever saved the day by waiting for someone else to come to his rescue,” Ford agrees, and Stan catches himself trying to roll his eyes when his swollen left eye twinges. Dammit. He’s gonna have this shiner for _weeks_. “This is - remarkable. You organised yourselves to break out? How did you get past the guards? Out of the cells?”

“They came to take Pacifica,” the boy - Dipper - says, with a glance over at Stan. “She...convinced them that she was the only one they let out.”

“So they didn’t lock your powers down?” Ford asks, and Dipper winces.

“No, they definitely did that. They just - Pacifica’s family’s  _really_  dedicated to keeping her mutation a secret.” Dipper gives Stan another glance, and Stan realises he probably thinks he’s being sneaky about it. “You never told us you were a twin too.”

“Wait, this ‘Pacifica’ you’re talkin’ about,” Stan says, looking from Ford to his mini-me. “You don’t mean -”

The rest of his sentence gets cut off when a girl who looks eerily like a female version of Dipper, only more rainbow-y and covered in glitter, appears out of nowhere and flings both arms around Dipper's neck. A blonde girl with a look like she’s just smelled something bad and she’s trying to work out where the stink’s coming from follows in her wake, stepping uncomfortably back like she's trying to blend into the crowd. 

"Mabel - gah, gotta breathe," Dipper chokes out, and then gives a very undignified squeak as Mabel gives him an extra squeeze. 

"You're okay! You're all okay!"

"Yep, nobody's dead - except for me, if you keep squeezing my ribs like that -"

“Candy! Grenda! I found them!” the brunette girl - Mabel - yells, and two more girls come thundering through the crush, the larger of the two shouldering people aside as the little scaly one ducks and weaves her way in between them. They pile on top of Mabel as well, turning her hug into a group hug.

Finally, they break apart, and Mabel lets go of Dipper, who sucks in a huge breath and slumps forward with exaggerated relief, to turn to beam at Ford and Stan. “You didn’t tell me you had a  _twin_!” she admonishes Ford, grinning at Stan, who suddenly feels a little like he’s been cornered by some kind of large predator. “Hi! I’m Mabel, I’m thirteen, and I make all my own sweaters!”

Ford nudges Stan in the side with one elbow, and Stan gives a slightly frozen smile. “Hi, uh, Mabel.” He extends a hand, not sure how to greet a thirteen-year-old force of nature and finally settling on a handshake. “Stan Pines. This here nerd’s my  _gah!”_  

His sentence ends in a yelp when Mabel, ignoring Stan’s extended hand, leans in to grab both Stan and Ford into an enormous group hug. Ford glances over at Stan over Mabel’s head, and Stan figures from his expression that this is a pretty typical Mabel introduction.

“Nice - nice to meet you too, kid,” he says, and reaches awkwardly around to give Mabel a pat on the back.

“Whoa, what’s going on over here?” a familiar voice drawls, and Stan looks up to see Wendy, dragging Nighthawk by one hand and aiming a teasing half-smile in Stan’s direction. “Family reunion? Seriously, man, you’ve been holding out on us, I didn’t know you had a twin.”

“Is every single person I talk to from now on gonna say that?” Stan snaps, but there’s no bite in it. “Yeah, the slightly-worse-looking version of me over there is my nerd brother. Ford, this is Wendy, she could kick your ass and not break a sweat. Oh, and Nighthawk, he’s a greasy, scrawny loser who thinks he’s hot shit, but we keep him around for some reason anyway.” 

Nighthawk huffs out a breath that shifts his flop of dyed-black bang and yanks his hand back from Wendy, crossing his arms over his chest instead.

“...charmed,” Ford says, finally. Wendy winks at him, and laughs when he turns red.

“I - don’t think I remember seeing you around school,” the kid - Dipper - blurts out, and Stan realises he’s even redder than Ford. Nighthawk scowls, and drapes one arm possessively over Wendy’s shoulder.

“That’s probably ‘cause I’m a dropout,” Wendy says, like it’s nothing, and then, to Stan, “Hey, looks like we’re getting ready to ditch. Don’t really wanna be here when the feds show up. If you’re done catching up...”

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder.

Stan looks down at the kids, who are looking expectantly up at him, and then at Ford, who’s got a nearly identical expression on his face.

“So, uh, guess I oughtta...” Stan starts, gruff, forced nonchalance bleeding out of his voice as he looks away and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

“You don’t have to -” Ford starts, at the same time as Stan, and bites the rest of the sentence back. He meets Stan’s eyes, and for once neither of them looks away.

“Nah,” Stan says, at last, turning away with a little shake of his head. “ ‘m not really cut out for this school stuff, you know that.” 

“If it’s the money you’re worried about, that’s not a - half of these kids are here on scholarship. Stan, _I’m_  here on scholarship. They just want to help -”

“Hey, nerd, save the recruiting campaign shit for someone who cares,” Nighthawk snaps, and Stan tries again to roll his eyes, wincing at the stab in his left eye. 

“Shut up, wouldja?” He gives his head another shake, turning back to Ford. “It ain’t that. I just -” Ford’s looking wounded, and Stan bites down on his bottom lip. “It looks like you got a good thing goin’ for you here. I don’t wanna mess it up for you.”

He doesn’t hit Ford, but from the look on Ford’s face, nobody’d ever be able to guess.

“Is that what you think I want?” Ford asks, quiet, and Stan shrugs, sharp and short, like it hurts to move too much.

“Isn’t it?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” a high voice says, and Stan and Ford both look down to see Mabel glowering at them with her hands on her hips. “Both of you need to hug it out. _Now_.”

When neither of them move, she adds, with a clap of her hands, “I’m not joking!”

“She’s really not,” Dipper agrees. 

Wendy lets out a huff of something that sounds suspiciously close to laughter. “Kid, I like your style.” She nudges Nighthawk in the ribs with her elbow, drawing a yelp out of him and making him jump. “Wonder if that’d work on our fearless leader and Xavier.”

Stan looks up and meets Ford’s eyes, and wants to laugh himself. He guesses that the deer-in-headlights expression Ford’s wearing doesn’t look all that different from the look on his own face.

"Look. Mabel," Stan says, finally, kneeling down to face the girl. "Thing is, my brother'n me...we got a lotta history. I dunno if we're ready to just hug it out."

Mabel's eyes are enormous and shimmering. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't try!"

Ford gives his glasses another adjustment even though they don’t really need it.

“Mabel, perhaps this is not the time -”

“This is the _only_ time!” Mabel looks from Ford to Stan, and Stan wants to punch his own stupid heart. He’s known this kid for, what, five minutes? He shouldn’t be looking at that kicked-puppy expression and thinking he can’t bear to disappoint the kid any more. “You two are _twins_ , but you never even mentioned each other to your friends, and now you’re about to go in two separate directions and maybe never see each other again except when you’re _fighting_! If there was ever a time for you two to hug it out, that time is _now_!”

“Mabel, the FBI is literally on its way here right now,” Dipper says.

“ _Not_ what I’m talking about!” Mabel shouts.

Ford looks at Stan.

Stan looks at Ford.

“Sure, why not,” Stan says, finally, straightening up and holding out his arms. “C’mere, poindexter.”

“This is preposterous,” Ford mutters, but he shuffles forward into Stan’s arms, letting out a squeak when Stan grabs him and squeezes him as hard as he possibly can. Stan hoists Ford up off his feet, spinning him around in a circle as Ford struggles and protests, this is undignified, they’re grown _men_ , Stanley - 

“Fine, fine,” Stan sighs, at last, setting his brother back on his feet. 

He doesn’t let go right away, though, and Ford, for all his whining, doesn’t either. In his head, Stan’s aware that there are people looking at them, that Nighthawk’s going to make fun of him for this for the next century, that this whole thing is kind of ridiculous ~~and girly and stupid and what would Dad think?~~ and that the feds are going to be here any minute and -

But Ford’s got his chin pressed into Stan’s shoulder and both arms around him, and he’s real and solid in Stan’s grip, and there’s an inconvenient lump in Stan’s throat even though his face hurts where his left eye is pressed up against the side of his brother’s head, and for the first time since he got kicked out he actually feels safe. Actually feels warm.

“That’s right!” Mabel says, and if the triumph in her voice sounds a little smug, Stan can’t bring himself to care. “Hug it allllllll out!”

“Can we leave now?” Nighthawk mutters. Everyone ignores him.

Ford finally pulls away, stepping back from Stan and giving himself a quick once-over, straightening his glasses and attempting, with little success, to unrumple his shirt.

“If you really don’t want to stay,” he says, pulling his glasses off and polishing them against the hem of his shirt, “then I won’t try to tell you what to do. I - think it’s good for us. Having our own lives.”

Something in Stan’s chest squeezes tight, compressing the air out of his lungs in one short, vicious burst, but Ford isn’t done talking. “But I don’t think that means we can’t be part of each other’s.” He finally looks up, meeting Stan’s eyes. “You’re welcome to visit any time.”

Stan sucks in a breath. It feels like his first in a very, very long time.

“Only if you promise not to talk politics,” he says, and is rewarded when Ford cracks a small smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited to remove the harry potter epilogue


	7. Epilogue

"Mabel, I can't do this."

Even though, to all of the cameras and reporters gathered on the lawn of the Northwest mansion, it appears that Pacifica Northwest is patiently sitting alone on the veranda behind her parents, she still feels a hand squeeze hers.

And even though she's a Northwest, and Northwests  _never_  show weakness in front of the public, Pacifica squeezes back.

"- dangerous mutant terrorists," her father finishes, before turning to Pacifica with a brilliant, expensive smile and a threat in his eyes. Pacifica realises she hasn't heard a single other word he's said. "Pacifica, dear, why don't you come up here and tell everyone about your terrifying ordeal."

She's a Northwest. Pacifica sucks in a deep breath, straightens her back and squares her shoulders, and lets go of Mabel's hand. Mabel gives Pacifica's hand one more quick squeeze before she lets go as well. Pacifica dons her practised smile like armour, and pushes herself up from the porch swing.

Her father holds out an arm as Pacifica steps up to the veranda stairs between him and her mother, drapes his arm across her shoulders. To the reporters, the gesture looks protective. Reassuring. Comforting.

Pacifica's been standing in front of crowds for as long as she can remember. Probably since she was born. She's a Northwest. This is second nature to her. The sucking silence, the weight of all those expectant gazes, has never bothered her before.

She draws in another breath. Shores up her smile. Her father's hand tightens warningly on her arm, not quite hard enough to hurt.

She's a Northwest. She can do this.

"I don't want to talk about the kidnapping," Pacifica blurts. Her father's said enough, the reporters all think it's because she's still traumatised by some terrible, unspeakable experience that they're having entirely too much fun imagining. Pacifica swallows hard, sternly reminds herself to keep it together. She's a Northwest. Northwests don't vomit on national television.

"Pacifica," her mother says, through her teeth. Pacifica doesn't have to look up to know she's smiling, smiling, until her face hurts.

"I want to talk about the reason I'm here, safe, in front of you today," Pacifica says, and her father interrupts, so seamlessly that it almost doesn't seem like he's interrupting.

"Yes, the brave, brilliant men and women of the FBI worked tirelessly, day and night, to -"

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for the X-Men," Pacifica says, raising her voice over her father's carefully modulated tones. She's a Northwest. She's spoken in front of crowds for forever. She knows how to project her voice. And she knows how to command attention.

" _Pacifica_ ," her father says, his grip on her arm tightening again.

"Ow!" Pacifica says, pulling away. It doesn't really hurt. Her father would never physically harm his own child, especially not in front of reporters. Quite apart from anything else, it would reflect badly on his ability to lead and govern, if he can't control his own family except by force.

At least, Pacifica hopes it will.

Pulling away also puts her a step closer to the microphones, puts a little distance between her and her family. It'll make her voice that much more distinct on the tapes. And maybe, with that little distance, she'll be able to stop her hands from shaking.

"They didn't have any reason to care about somebody like me," she says, fast, scanning the crowd for reactions to her little performance. "They could've just sat back and let my father be blackmailed into withdrawing his support for the Mutant Control Act. But they  _didn't_. They helped me. Because it was the right thing to do."

"Yes, yes, it's all very touching," Pacifica's father says, sounding annoyed. "All our gratitude to Charles Xavier and his - team - for their aid in reuniting us with our beautiful daughter." His hands land heavily on Pacifica's shoulders, clamping down like iron shackles. "Now, we'd like to be left in peace, to recover and reflect on our blessings as a family. Priscilla.  _Pacifica_."

Pacifica doesn't need to be able to read minds to know how incandescently furious her father is with her, as he starts steering her towards the front door, ignoring the shouted questions from the crowd on the lawn. There's going to be hell to pay for this. But she's  _done it_. She's forced her father to as good as admit the X-Men aren't a 'terrorist organisation' like he's been spouting for so long. To admit his  _gratitude_  to them. She's made him look like a raging, opinionated fool in front of the whole country, and made the X-Men look like heroes, to an audience who would otherwise have eaten up every terrible thing her father had to say about them. There's no way anyone's shutting down Xavier's school now. Public opinion won't allow it.

She's a Northwest. And she's done what Northwests do best.

Lie.

It's with slow horror that Pacifica realises that, under the layer of fury her father's aiming at her, there's also a growing pride.

She's learned well. From the best, of course, and she's clearly still an amateur, but there are seeds of greatness in Preston Northwest's daughter. All she needs is some...refining, a little guidance on her choice of targets, but someday soon, she'll be a force to be reckoned with. He and Priscilla have really done an admirable job as parents. A reward of some kind might be in order. After the punishment, of course. Maybe another pony? Girls like horses, don't they?

Pacifica looks over at the swing, to where she knows Mabel was sitting. She tries to remind herself that she's doing this for them, that she's worth more as a human ally than as one of their number, that there's no evidence to prove the truth and that plenty can be manufactured to prove her father's lie, that the best way to help them now is just to manipulate the truth a little more...

But all she can hear is Dipper's voice in her head, reminding her that she's just another link in the world's worst chain.

Then the swing is past. The front door of the Northwest mansion looms in front of Pacifica, like the maw of some impossible monster, waiting to swing wide and swallow her back up into a life that's just one big, ugly, perfect, lie.

Pacifica's father lets go of one of her shoulders to reach out and open the front door, and Pacifica wrenches herself out of his grip. She ignores his shout, her mother's gasp, everything she knows about appearing confident and collected in front of a crowd. The width of the veranda feels like a million burning miles under her running feet.

She snatches the microphone out of the hands of the first reporter she reaches, before her parents can drag her away.

"It's all fake!" she yells, as loud as she can. She wants this to be heard all the way across the lawn. "The kidnapping, this family, all of it! My father made me stage the whole stupid thing to make Xavier's look bad!"

For the first time in her short life, Pacifica sees an entire crowd of reporters too momentarily stunned to pepper her with questions.

"That's  _enough_ , Pacifica," her father says, sharp, grabbing the microphone out of her hand. He beams at the crowd, only looking a little strained. "She's been through a lot, and who knows what kind of brainwashing techniques those -"

"I'm not brainwashed!" Pacifica shouts. "And I'm not traumatised! And I'm  _not_  going back into that house with you!"

"Don't be ridiculous," her father spits, through clenched teeth. He turns a practised smile on the crowd, half-manages a laugh, but even Pacifica can tell it's fraying severely at the edges. Her mother is breaking down into quiet half-faked sobs behind them. Both Pacifica and her father ignore her. "I don't know  _what_  she's so upset about -"

"Oh, did you conveniently forget the part where you threatened to send me to a conversion camp if I didn't play along?" Pacifica snaps. 

Her father's eyes narrow. 

"Come inside, Pacifica, where we can talk without...interruptions," he says, with a quick flick of his eyes towards the crowd gathered on the lawn. 

"No," Pacifica says. Her mother's gasp is loud enough now that it can't be real.

"Pacifica! We are Northwests! We don't air our dirty laundry in public."

"Maybe I don't want to be a Northwest anymore," Pacifica says. There's a strange, buzzing lightness filling her, like she's been hollowed out and filled with bees and their little flapping wings are going to lift her right off her feet and carry her away into the flawlessly blue sky. "Maybe I'm sick of pretending to be something I'm not."

She turns on one heel to face the crowd. The edge of the veranda suddenly seems like it's miles high, like she's teetering on the lip of a cliff with thousands of onlookers below, preparing herself to take the leap. Hoping against all possibility that it turns out that she can fly.

"I'm a mutant," she says.

...

"...so, anyway, Pacifica's gonna be staying with us for a while," Mabel natters from the backseat.

"That sounds like an excellent plan," Ford says. Stan manages a grunt of agreement. Sure, maybe she's turned over a new leaf, but he really can't bring himself to spare too much sympathy for the poor little rich girl at the moment. 

He's busy watching out the window as his old neighbourhood flies by.

It feels like an eternity and yet no time at all before the pickup truck pulls up in front of Pines Pawns. Nothing’s changed, and for some reason, Stan’s surprised. Nevermind that it’s only been - what, a handful of months? Barely any time at all. But it feels, somehow, like the pawn shop should be - at least dustier than he left it. The sign a little more faded. Missing letters.  _Some_ thing.

But everything’s exactly the way he remembers it. Even the ugly taxidermy bulldog with the crossed eyes is still sitting beside the counter, staring right through them all as they pile through the pawn shop doors.

Stan and Ford’s ma starts when they push through the door, nearly getting stuck in the frame because they’re both trying to get through at the same time. She recovers quickly, a fake smile spilling lipstick-red across her face as she reassures whoever’s on the other end of the line. “Oh, naw, hon, that wasn’t because of your future, just had some unexpected visitors, that’s all -”

Stan marches over and grabs the phone out of his mother’s hand, bringing it to his ear. He ignores the tinny voice squawking down the line, says, “Sorry, she’s gonna have to call you back,” and hangs up.

“Stanley Pines!” his mother snaps, clawing at his hand as he slams the receiver down. “Who do you think you are?”

“The guy who’s gettin’ you outta here,” Stan says, looking down to meet her eyes. “If you got anything hidden around this house that you wanna take with you, Ma, you better grab it, because the guy we got packin’ for you don’t know this house too well, and we ain’t comin’ back.”

Through the front window of the pawn shop, Stan can see that the truckbed’s half full by the time they make it to the foot of the stairs. The telltale blast of wind that throws Stan’s carefully-coiffed hair into a rat’s nest of tangles and whips his ma’s skirt around her legs probably means Dipper’s gone back for another load. Stan’s pretty sure they’d inherited those night tables from his dad’s mother, but he’s not saying anything unless his ma does.

“This is ridiculous,” Stan’s ma grouses, all the way down the stairs, but she doesn’t try to pull her arm away and she doesn’t turn around. The baby’s snoring contentedly in the carrier on Stan’s arm, but his ma keeps checking, like she’s scared it might have vanished since the last time she looked. “I  _know_  we raised you boys better than this. Of all the - ungrateful -”

Her voice, confident and shrill all the way down the stairs, stutters and falls silent as they pass through the pawn shop, past the register and the wall behind it, where Wendy’s casually leaning in such a way that she’s blocking Filbrick from leaving. Stan catches a snippet of what she’s saying as they pass by, tries to focus on her words and not the feeling of his father’s laser gaze boring into his back as he crosses the familiar old shop for what he hopes will be the last time.

“- and  _then_ , he says, okay, but I bet you can’t split the handle, so I throw another axe, and sure, it splits the handle right down the middle, but I totally notched the blade when it hit the head of the first axe, so really, I was kinda the loser in that situation. But enough about me! You ever win any axe-throwing competitions?”

The bell over the door of the pawn shop jangles as the door slams shut behind them.

For the first time, Stan’s ma stops. Stan and Ford stop too, one on either side of her, on the steps, looking down at the truck parked in the street.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm honks, five times before somebody shuts it off. The sun beats hot through Stan’s white t-shirt, raising a smell of cooking asphalt and used fryer fat from the alley. 

“I can’t do this,” Stan’s ma says, sudden, in the kind of voice that she’d always used to say, ‘I don’t need another gin’.

“Yes you can, ma,” Stan says. “C’mon, just three more steps.”

Stan’s ma gives her head one decisive shake. “I can’t do this to him, he’s been nothin’ but good to all of us - kept a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs and food in our mouths - and there weren’t many who’d’ve had me, when -”

“Ma,” Ford says, soft, the first time he’s opened his mouth since they’d burst through the door. His mother turns to look at him, and he slings the diaper bag down onto the step to catch her hand in both of his. “You don’t have to just be grateful it’s not worse.”

For the first time in all the time he’s known her, Stan realises, behind the lipstick and the nail polish and the brassiness, just how tired his mother seems. 

She half-turns, looking back over her shoulder through the front window of the shop. Stan has to fight down the screaming urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her into the truck himself along with the baby. 

"You want little Sherm growing up with a pa like that?" he says, and knows he's struck a low blow when his mother flinches. "Sorry, Ma."

His mother smacks him in the arm without looking at him, but her heart's not in it, the blow's weak, her talons scraping lightly over Stan's sleeve. She doesn't turn away from the pawn shop window.

“What the hell’m I supposed to do without him?” she asks, soft, like she doesn’t mean for either of her sons to hear.

“Anything you want,” Stan says. He can’t stop it from slipping out.

His mother huffs out something that sounds like a laugh that got stuck halfway.

“All right,” she says, and she’s starting to sound like herself again. “You two obviously got a plan. Lead on.”

“Hi!” Mabel shouts, when Stan opens the truck door for his ma, bouncing up like a cardboard cutout in a popup book. “I’m Mabel! I’m thirteen and I love pigs! What’s your name?”

“Mabel, huh?” Stan and Ford’s ma says, as she climbs up into the back of the truck’s cab. “Nice to meet ya, hon. I’m Sheila. You ever had your palm read?”

...

So, the day is saved.

It’s just like in those superhero comics Stan used to like so much. The villain is defeated. The story ends. And, just like in those superhero comics Stan used to like so much, it leaves Ford wondering what happens once the crisis is over, once the heroes have to go back to their everyday lives.

As it turns out, the answer is ‘not a lot’. Ford ends up studying, mostly. He has to present some kind of research, sometime.

It feels...anticlimactic, somehow. Like something more should’ve happened, some intense personal revelation or sacrifice, something that would have shaped him and molded him into a better friend, a better brother, a better person. Someone smarter and stronger and braver, someone who could effortlessly step up when needed. Someone who always knows what to do. What to say. 

Ford isn’t any of that. He’s just the same Ford he was two weeks ago, only more stressed out because he can’t seem to remember the most  _basic_  things about thermodynamics. 

“What’s the coefficient for friction, again?” he asks, and Stan shrugs.

“You’re asking  _me_ , poindexter?”

Ford lets out a sigh, and shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’ll look it up.”

Silence falls over the room again, broken only by the intermittent  _fwoosh_  as Stan lights little fires in the palm of his hand and then closes it into a fist to put them out. He says he keeps coming over because he’s serious about learning how to use ice, too, but so far Ford’s pretty sure the only thing he’s really serious about is making eyes at Carla.

“So I’m thinking about changing my name to Inferno,” Stan says, casually, and Ford nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Wh- Stanley, that’s - that sounds ridiculous, why would you ever -” Ford swallows hard, shaking his head. “If - if that’s what you choose, then I’ll support you -”

Stan bursts out laughing, clapping Ford on the back. “Nah, I’m not really gonna do that. But you shoulda seen the look on your face!”

“You are a terrible human being,” Ford mutters, but he can’t help a smile.

“Good thing I’m not one, then,” Stan grins, and Ford lets out a groan from the very bottom of his stomach.

“How are we related,” he grumbles, and Stan laughs.

The silence settles in again, comfortable as an old pair of shoes. Somewhere out in the hall, there’s a shout and laughter that can only belong to Mabel, and the sound of running feet. A moment later, the door flies open, slamming against the wall behind it as Dipper bursts into the room, with Mabel and her friends hot on his heels. 

“Heyyyyyyyyy what’s going on,” Dipper blurts. “Uh, Ford? Can you please tell these three that you can’t just turn back time by running really fast in the opposite direction of the Earth’s rotation so it starts rotating in reverse _?_ ” 

“Aw, c’mon, Dipper!” Mabel protests, bouncing flat on her back onto Ford’s bed.

“Yeah, you’ll never know unless you try!” Grenda booms.

“I actually  _do_  know, because even if I could reverse the Earth’s rotation by running really fast in the other direction, it’d just slow to a stop and fling all of us off!”

“That also sounds like fun,” Candy says.

“You’d die instantly!”

“Better than dying slow and painful!” Grenda shouts. 

Stan glances up, meets Ford’s eyes over the kids’ heads, and Ford has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from cracking up. 

“You know,” he says, shutting his notebook and setting it down beside him, “I’ve hit a stall with all of this. How about we head outside and see what we  _can_  do with running really fast?”

“I did not sign up for this,” Dipper grumbles, but he’s smiling. 

“Yeah, this I wanna see,” Stan says. “You guys head on out, I’m gonna make popcorn.” He flashes a conspiratorial grin in Ford’s direction, before pushing himself up off the bed and starting for the door.

“Wait!” Dipper calls after him, hurrying along on his heels. “How’s your friend Wendy doing? Did she ask about me?”

Mabel trails after him, sing-songing, “Dipper’s got a  _cruuuuuush_!” Candy and Grenda join in, the chant growing in volume as they all head out into the hall, Dipper’s protests rising in counterpoint.

“ _Mabel!_  I do not!”

Ford hangs back, for a moment, listening to the voices fading along the hall. 

Then he pushes himself to his feet, and follows after them.


End file.
